The Judgement of Actaeon
by mellowenglishgal
Summary: Beholding Artemis while she bathed, Actaeon the Hunter was punished, transfigured into a stag, suddenly becoming that which he had hunted. Artemis' judgement of Actaeon resonated through Olive's life as she observed the Argent family's genocide of often innocent werewolves, reporting to her superiors while attending her sophomore year and her evolving feelings for Isaac Lahey.
1. Chapter 1

**A.N.**: Family friends, Megan, Maia and Grace got me watching this show because of all the almost-naked-nudity, and after having spent three days watching Teen Wolf nonstop, I have decided that Isaac is my future husband. You are all welcome to come to the wedding; the ritual sacrifice to complete the ceremony will be Allison because she _knifed_ my boyfriend. In place of gifts, please make donations to Grace's 'Shirtless Stiles' campaign!

Anyway, I seriously hate the Hunters; probably a mixture of my loathing for the Hunters in Lords of the Underworld, the hypocrisy of the Superintendent in the novel _Lothaire_ by Kresley Cole, and Alexander Corvinus/Lorenz Macaro in _Underworld_, I have decided that if there are people out trying to cull werewolves for simply being alive, there has to be someone, an organisation, who keeps track of what the Hunters get up to. Like torturing the high-school principal, killing sixteen-year-olds for having sex with their daughters, putting invasion-of-privacy cameras on every square inch of a high-school…

I am coming around to Allison's dad, though. He always keeps to the code, despite not being a pirate.

* * *

**The Judgement of Actaeon**

_01_

* * *

There were few things in his life that he had the freedom to _enjoy_. The gentle hint of _her_ subtle perfume was one of them, every time she paused by her locker, right next to his. She had slipped in at the start of the semester, brand-new to town, a sophomore, like him, and the highlight of several of his classes; with the arrival of the other, pale girl with sharp cheekbones and a demure, doe-like personality, she had gone relatively unnoticed, but he'd seen her, and been hooked.

Because she was almost as quiet as he was: she passed undetected through the school day; she was quiet, but well-spoken and very polite to teachers.

He'd bet anything that, if she wanted to, she could have been one of the girls who were like Lydia, the bright, bubbly, popular ones who got invited to all the best parties and had the best stories to tell, went out on dates with different boys every week and laughed in the centre of her clique in the cafeteria. Because she was _very_ pretty.

And it wasn't that _fake_ prettiness, makeup piled on and getting up at five a.m.—he'd heard Lydia Martin bragging to that effect once—to do her hair and choose her outfit out of a huge selection in her closet. She had this deep olive-toned skin that naturally was deeply tanned, almost as if she had some Native American blood, but he didn't think she did; he thought her family must be from the Mediterranean, because she was so deeply olive-skinned, with beautiful soft dark brunette hair the colour of molasses. She had the most stunning green eyes he had ever seen; shining from her deeply tanned face, they were exquisite, framed with very fine, curling black lashes.

He liked best when she would show up to school in a fit of femininity, wearing the seemingly only top she owned that wasn't a white cotton t-shirt; it was a creamy lace top, slightly cropped, with a scalloped hem and pearl buttons at the back. It was only on the days she wore that top that she would pull her hair up, in a soft, relaxed bun at the base of her neck; over the course of the day, with P.E., the bun would become even softer, more relaxed, curls escaping from it. But he liked it best when she wore her hair loose; it tumbled in the most beautiful natural curls, forming sun-highlighted ringlets as the day wore on, around her shoulders. She had several tiny beauty-spots on her throat, and _freckles_ on the back of her neck.

He'd never seen her shoulders bare, but he wondered whether she had freckles there. And aside from P.E., he'd never seen her wear anything but dark, fitted denim jeans; they weren't tight, or 'skinny'; they were a great fit, and the prettiest thing about her was the way she carried herself while she was wearing those jeans, that white t-shirt, the lace top, with her hair up or down.

She had a sense of self-assuredness that seemed transcendent.

He didn't know how she did it, but she had the most amazing concentration of anyone he'd ever met; in the middle of a huge fight between Jackson and Lydia in the cafeteria one afternoon, there she had sat, cheek resting against her fist, eating one of the two daily hot lunch choices offered in the cafeteria, reading. She hadn't looked up, even when Lydia had burst into hysterical tears and her heels had been the only sound in the hall as she fled toward the girls' bathroom. While everyone else had started gossiping about the It-Couple having a huge blowout—_again_—she had just sat there, reading.

All he knew about her was that she preferred the _iPod_ Classic to one of the cutesy, colourful new Nano _iPods _that every girl at school wanted; he'd never seen her drink a soda; even if she dressed almost tomboyish, she wore several pieces of gold jewellery: a tiny infinity loop pendant; a tiny pendant of three circles from which dangled three multifaceted black beads; a tiny circle pendant stamped with her first-initial; a gold pyramid-studded cuff of brown leather; and a diamond-studded serpentine ring. He had seen her read a huge, ancient compendium of Shakespeare plays, a cookbook, a lot of Stephen King novels, and P.G. Wodehouse, as well as other books he'd see her with one afternoon and then, never again, she'd already finished reading them by the next morning when she arrived at school in a beautiful black Chevy _Impala_. His dad said it was a '67.

It was a while before he worked up the nerve to talk to her; in the meantime, she had befriended Stiles Stilinski. Not an obvious friendship; he was about the biggest nerd in the sophomore class, and she was…not. There was this incredible coolness to her that contradicted her surroundings; she was quiet, laughed softly in a rich chuckle, and seemed too…_adult_ for any given situation. He had never seen her rise to the bait once; never heard her say a bad word about anybody or join in gossiping or making fun of Erica about her epileptic fit. He'd heard that she had smashed some guy's cell-phone for recording Erica during her seizure. In fact, Isaac couldn't say he'd seen her interact with her classmates any more than the obligatory hello and the odd group assignment.

Her name was Olive Royea—pronounced 'Roy-ay'—and Isaac thought she was the prettiest girl he'd ever seen.

It wasn't until some weeks after she had moved to Beacon Hills that Isaac ever actually talked to her. In class, she sat with her head down, diligently taking notes; outside of lessons, she seemed inapproachable too, reading.

Then, Mr Harris paired Isaac with her for Chemistry.

That's when it all changed; they _had_ to talk to one another. Though that didn't make it any easier for Isaac; he just kept hearing his father's voice in his head, repeating every demoralising thing he'd ever said, battering his self-confidence. The terrorisation at home extended to school, where he was no more than a shell filling a desk, quiet and unnoticed. Everyone believed him when he said he got his black eyes and bruises from lacrosse, rough-housing in the locker-rooms before practices. Relief enveloped him as he sat down at the table Harris had assigned him to sit at for the duration of the lab; he had no black eye today.

"I…should probably apologise before we start," Isaac said quietly, glancing at her; she was wearing a soft heather-grey t-shirt today, and she was in the midst of pulling her curly hair into a bun at the base of her neck with several pins she kept pressed between her lips. "I'm…not so good at chemistry." Smiling, she plucked the last pin from her lips, tucking it into her hair.

"So when I send us to the E.R. with chemical-burns, I'll blame it on you?" she smiled. She had a _very_ pretty smile. Isaac couldn't help smiling back shyly.

"No, please don't," he smiled shyly. If he ended up in hospital, they'd see his bruises; his ribs were still healing, and there was a huge purplish-black bruise on his hip. Just the thought of… He swallowed hard and straightened out his notebook, noticing that hers was filled with incredibly pretty handwriting, the margins filled with doodles.

"You're Isaac, aren't you?" she said, and he glanced up, nodding. "Yeah, you're on the Lacrosse team."

"Yeah," Isaac nodded.

"Yeah," she smiled, offering her hand to shake, "I'm sorry I haven't…introduced myself before, I know our lockers are next to each other."

"It's cool," Isaac smiled shyly. "It must be kinda hard, trying to remember all these new faces."

"Yeah," she said, sighing softly, looking for a moment very sad. She hitched a subtle smile back on her lips. Trying to think of something to say to keep the conversation going, Isaac jumped a little as the classroom-door slammed, and Jackson and Lydia sauntered into the room, joined at the lips. All of a sudden, he felt very warm, sitting so close to Olive. He could tell how pretty her hair smelled, could count those tiny beauty-spots on her throat, saw that she kept her fingernails neatly filed and painted with clear polish. He rubbed his hands on his thighs, aware that his own fingertips were bruised and blackened. Swallowing nervously, he glanced at her.

"So… Where does your name come from?" he asked, actually curious; he'd known some Olivia's, two Liv's and a Livie in his school-career. But no Olives.

"Where?" she glanced at him, those fine-lashed green eyes widening inquisitively.

"I mean, Olive, it's…it's an old-fashioned name," Isaac blushed, hoping she didn't misinterpret and get offended.

"Well, it's not Biblical," she said, giving him a very warm smile. "My father's name was Oliver, I was named after him. It means 'peace'," she added softly.

"How come you don't go by Liv?" Isaac asked curiously.

"There aren't many Olives," she said softly, glancing at him.

"Usually it's 'Olivia'," he agreed, nodding.

"What about you, where does Isaac come from?" Olive asked.

"It was my grandpa's name," Isaac said, his stomach dipping slightly as he added, "My mom's father."

"It's a good name," Olive said, smiling, her eyes flicking over his face. Glad again he didn't have a black eye, nevertheless he jumped when Mr Harris appeared at the end of the table.

"Now, as I'm handing your latest homework assignments back, please take note of your grade; they reflect the grades you'd get if this was the fall midterm," Harris said, giving Olive a bright smile. "Excellent paper, Miss Royea." With a smile, Olive took the essay back from Mr Harris, carefully tucking it inside her notebook. Harris carefully passed Isaac his paper without comment, but the large red lettering on the front spoke for itself, and Isaac shivered as he looked at the grade, his excitement over sitting next to Olive, paired with her for an assignment, was cooled by the fear of what would happen when his father found out he'd received a D grade on his essay.

And he'd tried; he'd really tried on this one.

He tried on _all_ of his homework and tests, because he knew what trouble he'd be in if he didn't do well.

He was in trouble all the time, just for breathing, but where he could, he tried not to give his dad any incentive to get angry. To punish him. Suddenly upset, he gritted his jaw, swallowing hard, and tried not to let on that his eyes were burning, desperation and anguish over a future punishment washing over him.

"Are you okay?" Olive asked gently, and Isaac started when a hand rested gently on his back, rubbing ever so subtly.

"Uh…"

"You didn't get the grade you wanted?" she asked quietly, green eyes taking in his features carefully.

"Uh… No," Isaac stammered softly. "No, not exactly."

"Well we'd better not get each other sent to the nurse's office during this lab, huh," Olive said coaxingly, smiling softly, and Isaac gave her a faltering smile.

Isaac was good with languages; he always had a high grade in French class. But the sciences? Chemistry was difficult. He hadn't even wanted to take Chemistry; he'd fulfilled the requirement for one science class for graduation; he'd received a B+ average in Biology last year, something he was quite proud of despite what his dad said. When everyone had received their essays back, Harris had them copy down notes and instructions for the day's lab, which they had preparing for all week and were now going to experiment with. Isaac couldn't help noticing how beautiful Olive's handwriting was; compared to his own scribbles, her notebook could have been put in the Uffizi.

"What do you think, have I got a future modelling chemistry eyewear?" Olive teased softly, glancing at Isaac as she donned a pair of protective goggles; Isaac smiled.

"Definitely," he smirked. They started to work on their experiment; he noticed how _neat_ Olive was, carefully arranging each of the bottles and beakers in descending height order, labels out.

"Sodium Borate," Isaac frowned at his notes, carefully memorising the amount of liquid they needed to add for the next stage in the experiment, and picked up the bottle of coloured liquid, carefully pouring a measure of it into the beaker over the Bunsen burner. Picking up the glass stirrer, he sighed and started stirring the liquid.

"Whoa, easy!" Olive laughed softly, and Isaac jumped, swallowing; she had wrapped her fingers delicately around his wrist, stilling his hand. She was wearing her diamond serpent ring today, with a collection of incredibly delicate gold bracelets; one had a tiny gold wishbone dangling from it, another had a tiny silver bead, a hammered gold bar, and a gold infinity-loop. Her hand was warm, her skin soft, and he felt her thumb rub ever so slightly against his wrist. She smiled. "That glass beaker's made of…well, glass."

"I'm sorry," Isaac swallowed, licking his lips as he relinquished his hold on the stirrer.

"Early practice this morning?" Olive asked, as he kneaded his eyes. He glanced at her.

"Yeah, and not enough sleep," he said quietly, though he'd never tell her why he'd slept badly. "Maybe you should do it."

"So why didn't you get much sleep?" she asked, glancing at him as she took up the stirrer.

"Just…stuff," Isaac shrugged. "Homework. The internet."

"That's the biggest cause of sleepless nights, I hear," Olive smiled.

"What did you do last night?"

"Sat in Jim's Diner doing homework."

"_That's_ where you do your homework?" Isaac raised his eyebrows at her. "It's so loud."

"Not if you stay late enough," Olive sighed. "I close the place out almost every night."

"Don't they close up at eleven?" Isaac frowned.

"Yep. Sometimes, after work, I'm not ready to go home just yet, so I go, and have dinner, and just…integrate with the rest of the Beacon Hills population," Olive sighed.

"Where do you work?" Isaac asked interestedly.

"The independent bookstore, by the bank," she smiled.

"On Fifth Street? You like to read a lot," Isaac observed, glancing at her. Olive smiled warmly.

"I do. Books love anyone who opens them," she said softly, sighing. "Whole worlds, universes, love-stories, they just…open right up, in a way no person ever could."

"Who's your favourite author?" Isaac asked. He should read more; but he liked BMX, lacrosse, and avoiding getting the shit kicked out of him by his dad.

"Now that's asking," Olive smiled. "I don't know. Different genres, different eras… I have lots of literary lovers." She chuckled.

"Name a few," Isaac smiled.

"Stephen King, Wodehouse, the Russians; Wodehouse, the Bronte sisters, Austen… I could read Charles Dickens all day," Olive smiled sweetly.

"So I take it you're excited we're doing _Great Expectations_ in English Lit?" Isaac asked.

"Yes!" she _beamed_. "This year's syllabus is great. Dickens, _Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde_, _The Tempest_ and William Blake. No _Romeo and Juliet_ whatsoever."

"You don't like _Romeo and Juliet_?" Isaac raised his eyebrows again. "I thought all teenaged girls loved _Romeo and Juliet_."

"For tragic lovers, I prefer _Wuthering_ _Heights_," Olive smiled. "My favourite Shakespeare play is _A Midsummer Night's Dream_…or _All's Well That Ends Well_."

"Yeah, I saw you with that huge Shakespeare book," Isaac said quietly, nodding.

"It was my grandfather's," Olive smiled. "My dad wanted me to have it."

"Family heirloom," Isaac chuckled softly.

"Yeah."

"Did your car belong to your dad?" he asked.

"My mother, actually," Olive grinned, and Isaac raised his eyebrows yet again, surprised. "She had a huge muscle-car phase when she was about my age; she'd read _The Outsiders_ too many times."

"Oh, I know that book," Isaac said, smiling; he'd read it in eighth grade for a book-report. He'd identified with Johnny most of all.

"I'd definitely rather be a Greaser than a Soc," Olive said, in an undertone, as Jackson sauntered past, bumping their table so the bottles and beakers chinkled.

"I'm not so sure," Isaac said quietly. Jackson might be the biggest jerk in the entire West Coast, but his parents would never ever think of laying a hand on him to punish him. Especially when he'd done nothing to deserve it. Isaac didn't even care that Jackson drove a _Porsche_; he'd just be happy with a mom who made chocolate-chip cookies when he was sad, and let him have friends over and not humiliate him in front of them…

"Really?" Olive glanced at him, eyes inquisitive.

"I know in the book, Cherry says 'it's bad all over', but at least for the Socs, when it's bad, they're having their car-keys taken away for breaking curfew," Isaac said quietly, then clammed up, afraid he'd revealed too much.

"Or getting knifed," Olive said, and Isaac glanced at her. Yeah, he guessed that ass in the beginning of the novel had had it worst of all, but he'd deserved it. "Not that he didn't deserve it."

"Yeah," Isaac agreed, with a faltering smile. Clearing his throat, he asked curiously, "So where did you move from?" He wondered if her rich olive-toned skin was naturally that dark, or if she had lived somewhere where the sun was even more constant than this part of California.

"Arizona," Olive smiled, and for a second, she looked inexplicably happy.

"Why did your family move to Beacon Hills?" Isaac asked curiously. Her smile faltered, her green eyes darkening with emotion.

"Not…my family, it's…just me, now," she said softly. She sighed, eyes on her notebook, but she glanced up, eyes wide. "Don't say anything, please?"

Isaac frowned. "I wouldn't know what to say." Whatever she'd thought she revealed, he obviously hadn't picked up on it; she'd said it was just her… Did that mean she was living with extended family? A foster-home? That might explain why she didn't go straight home after work. Something he wished he could get away with doing.

The lesson ending, Isaac glanced at the clock, anxious to get to practice, and Olive checked the time, too.

"I didn't think this would take so long," she said; while everyone else cleared up their tables, they sat going over the last few details of their experiment.

"I don't mind. I like being at school when no-one else is," Isaac said quietly. When there was nobody actually in the halls, it felt less like he was being completely ignored. Even if people noticed his black eyes and caught a glimpse of a bruise if his t-shirt revealed his torso when he removed a sweatshirt, nobody commented on it; they believed his stories that he'd taken a hit during Lacrosse practice.

"Viscosity, elasticity and tensile strength. Anything else we need to cover? Besides our noses—this stuff is disgusting!" Olive said, pulling a face as she ran the beaker of green goo under her nose. "Okay, seriously, we could've saved all this time and energy by taking a sample of this from the floor in the boys' locker-room."

"How do you know this stuff grows in there?" Isaac smiled.

"Well, I have heightened senses, see," Olive smiled. "That, and I had to go and see the coach to hand in my results from my physical."

"What team are you on?" Isaac asked curiously.

"Well, it's not so much a team—I do gymnastics," Olive said, glancing at him.

"We had to do a few weeks of that last year," Isaac grimaced.

"It wasn't to your taste?"

"There was a lot of falling."

"I _love_ falling," Olive said, her gentle voice rich with enthusiasm.

"Which is your favourite apparatus?"

"I love them all, but…the vault," Olive said thoughtfully.

"Where you run full-speed into an inanimate object?"

"That's the one," Olive chuckled. "Okay, and floor—lots of flips. And the uneven bars."

"That requires a lot of upper-body strength," Isaac remembered.

"Yep. I could take on any one of you lacrosse boys in an arm-wrestling competition, any day," Olive teased.

"It wouldn't be much of a competition with me."

"Oh no?"

"No, my arms have the strength of a toothpick."

Olive laughed. "I'm sure that's not true."

"Coach doesn't make me weight-train as much, because I never actually play," Isaac said, sadly. He loved being on the Lacrosse team; it was the only time in the day where he ever felt connected to anybody else in the entire world.

"I'll bet if you'd wanted to, you could've made first-line," Olive said, giving him a gentle, thoughtful smile. Isaac tried to smile back.

"Not with McCall," he said quietly, gazing at his notebook as Olive started clearing up their table. He didn't know where McCall had come from; he certainly hadn't been that good on the Freshman team; maybe he'd been training over the summer with Stiles. He had a best-friend to train with. He cleared his throat softly. "So, you and, um…you and Stilinski are pretty close."

"I guess," Olive said gently, wiping out their beaker into the trash, wrinkling her nose.

"You seem to be," Isaac said thoughtfully; he hadn't heard Olive laugh much, but when he had, it had always been around Stiles Stilinski, the Adderall-addicted ADHD kid who sat warming the bench just as he did. "Are you two…?" he swallowed, glancing shyly at Olive, whose eyes widened slightly.

"Oh!" she laughed softly. "No, we're just friends." She glanced at the clock again. "Hey, if you need to get to the locker-rooms to get ready for practice, I can clean up."

"Are you sure?" Isaac asked shyly, and she gave him a smile, nodding.

"Absolutely," she said, smiling. "Go. I've got this." Isaac packed up his things, biting his lip.

"So…we should probably…meet up to write the report," he said shyly.

"Oh, yeah," Olive smiled. "Well, um… I have gymnastics later tonight…actually, almost every night."

"I have work, too, after practice," Isaac nodded. "When are your free periods?" Olive tugged her schedule out of her backpack; it was unusually neat, compared to his own crumpled, scuffed one, which he tugged out of his pocket and unfolded. He noticed she was taking the obscure Classical Civilisations class, as well as AP Latin and Algebra 2; he was still on Geometry. They had no free periods at the same time.

"Okay, maybe…lunch?" Olive suggested, glancing at him, and Isaac flushed, nodding. "Tomorrow?"

"Yeah, that sounds…good," Isaac said shyly. Olive smiled.

"Good. I'll wait for you after English," she said warmly, and Isaac nodded. His week was looking up! For the first time in years, he'd actually be sitting with someone at lunch.

"Have a good time at gymnastics," he said quietly, and Olive beamed as he shouldered his bag, picked up his lacrosse stick and made his way toward the door. "Thanks, for…clearing up."

"You're very welcome," Olive smiled.

Her senses _were_ heightened; and she could get _impressions_ off of people.

Isaac Lahey had to be the most physically and emotionally battered kid she'd ever met; the incredible sense of fear and despair that had washed over him upon receiving his D-graded essay had hit her like a train. He had been so upset about it, somehow _afraid_ of whatever it meant to him to receive that grade, his hands had been shaking, and he had gone white, almost crying with desperation. _Despair_.

But _god_ was he cute.

Today was the first time she had ever heard him speak, at all. He was so painfully shy, she hadn't felt comfortable forcing him into conversation by saying hello every time they made eye-contact at their lockers, which was often. She didn't have to have heightened senses to feel Isaac's eyes on her; and she liked looking at him as much as he seemed to like looking at her. Of all the kids at Beacon Hills High, she found Isaac Lahey the most…enigmatic. Everyone else was so predictable, falling into the pre-designated cliques that had dominated high-schools since the 1950s.

But Isaac? The cute boy with _incredible_ blue eyes, skinny but _tall_, without an ounce of self-confidence, could pass through an entire day without speaking or being addressed, by other students or even teachers. And nobody noticed. She would know; they had several classes together. And she loved to sneak glances at those pretty eyes, those lovely lips, wondering exactly how bad it was at home that he came to school every other day with a fresh bruise. Because she knew, from the impression she got from him, they weren't from _lacrosse_.

She cleared up the desk, putting away their equipment, washing out the beaker, and when she made her way out of the classroom, she tucked her earphones in, turning on her latest playlist, and went out to her car. She knew it was probably illegal to listen to earphones whilst driving, but being in cahoots with the Sheriff, sneaking him curly-fries whenever his son wasn't looking, had its payoffs. She didn't know how she'd gone so long without a Stiles in her life, but he had to be the most hilarious, out-there person she'd ever met, and with his obsession with eavesdropping on his father's business calls, his knowledge of the police code and his enthusiasm and bubbly personality, he made for an interesting friend.

Jamming her key into the ignition of her beautiful '67 _Chevy_ Impala, she reversed out of her parking-spot and lurched out of the school parking-lot. She had to have dinner early before gymnastics practice later tonight; today was one of the few nights a week she didn't have work, and she enjoyed that thought, planning to come home after training to watch some television she hadn't caught up on yet, eat some contraband _Ben &_ _Jerry's_ and have a_ long_ bath.

There were things to living in Beacon Hills she hadn't realised she was going to be able to enjoy; long walks in the woods, the independent bookstore and watching Isaac Lahey during P.E. were three of those things. Making her way through a small tub of Ben & Jerry's little by little on the weekend was another, as was breakfast at Jim's Diner and…not having to _try_.

A small town like Beacon Hills meant certain things weren't appropriate; like mini-skirts, and there was a certain dress-code that went unspoken within small towns; red lipstick at school, showing your bra, ultra-fashionable outfits as seen on magazine editors, sheer tops and body-con dresses… It was like, and she hated the comparison, but she and a friend had laughed their _asses_ off reading _Twilight_ and _New_ _Moon_, Rosalie Hale turning up at the small-town high-school prom in a down-to-there red gown, driving a hugely expensive red sports-car.

Here in Beacon Hills, Olive could get away with going seemingly bare-faced, limiting her makeup to toner and a little smudged brown eyeliner; she could wear jeans every day of the week, and nobody sneered if she wore another plain t-shirt. She had bought another pair of colourful Converse knock-offs because she loved being able to wear them, now having a fuchsia pair, a turquoise and a sunflower-yellow pair. Her last school had been…high-maintenance. And she had partied way too hard. The kids she'd been forced to befriend—and, in all honesty, had enjoyed spending time with—had been high-maintenance, and loved to party, so she had learned to as well.

But Beacon Hills was more at her speed. The kids she'd become friends with since moving here were…much more her speed. That wasn't to say she was a nerd, as Stiles jokingly called Scott; the actual term was that Scott had, by association, 'Scarlet-Nerded' him. Olive personally thought they were both as bad as each other, and it was flattering but untrue that she was now their _bad_-_girl_ friend who drove an old muscle-car and lived out in a cabin in the woods.

It wasn't a long drive from school to her cabin, but it was a countryside road through the woods, a few of the trees touched with the barest hint of ochre and burning fuchsia, pumpkin-orange; it was going to be beautiful when the trees truly started to turn. She could remember this town from when she was a kid, coming to visit family-friends during the summer, mushroom-hunting in the fall; the thing she remembered most was being taught how to swim—the _wolf_-paddle, not the doggy-paddle.

Her little cabin stood in the midst of several old trees, including an ash, an oak and a beautiful horse-chestnut, a gentle slope going up behind the cabin, littered with dropped leaves, twigs; in the spring, she expected wildflowers. She had already heard hedgehogs at dusk, and caught sight of a badger and a few racoons on her late-night jogs. The porch had been littered with debris when she got here, the inside of the cabin dark, dreary, and she had spent a lot of time putting the cabin together just the way she wanted it. Now, a timeworn rocking-chair stood in front of the two windows of the dining-room overlooking the porch, while a cast-iron marble-topped little round table full of potting equipment was tucked in the far corner, and her favourite old Kokopelli wind-chime from home in Arizona dangled by the porch-steps; knowing there would be very little in there, she checked the mailbox attached to the wall by the door, delightedly surprised to find several letters, a parcel and a magazine inside.

Built in the 1860s, the cabin had been the favourite hunting haunt of her long-dead relatives, and if she had wanted, she could have moved into the Big House; there were no renters in there at the moment. But she had seen the cabin and fallen in love with its rusticity, its simplicity; she loved its _character_. Inside, she had removed several of the more traditional features of _hunting_-_cabin_ décor, and started with a blank canvas. This was the first time she had ever had a home of her own; she had bounced from family-friend to family-friend for the last few years, but this cabin? This belonged to her, and nobody could take it from her. She had put a lot of thought into decorating it just the way she wanted, and given she'd only lived here a month or so, she was still touching things up, improving things, painting, putting photos up, making the place her own.

She watched a lot of television that gave her ideas for decorating her space; _Gossip Girl_, despite having horrid plots and dialogue, had sumptuous set-designs, and _Pinterest_, the bane of her existence, had _lots_ of ideas for redecorating; combined, she had spent quite a while pulling together inspiration-boards for each area of the cabin. The downstairs was open-plan, except for the large bathroom and an equally-large storage-room, both on the left-side of the cabin; a floating staircase led up to the only upstairs room, her bedroom, and a little airing-cupboard for linens. The first room she had decorated was her bedroom; then the bathroom, and the downstairs was coming together, each different area—the kitchen; the dining-area; a desk for her homework and crafts; the living-area—a different theme that segued seamlessly into the other. She dropped her keys into the little hand-turned clay dish on the tiny occasional table inside the front-door, punting the door closed with her heel as she went through her mail. A _Birchbox_—the subscription her friend had gifted her for her birthday would run out in a few months—a copy of this month's _National Geographic_, and a letter from Arthur; she opened that first, everything else put on hold for the minute.

Still reading, she plugged her iPod into her small but powerful stereo on the inbuilt shelves to the left of the large fireplace, music issuing instantly from the two very large three-foot-tall speakers at either end of the living-area; tugging her sneakers off, she sank onto the cushioned piano-stool under the floating stairs, frowning as she read Arthur's letter, and after she had finished reading it, glanced up, taking in the trinkets arranged on top of the upright piano; one of her music-books open to a _Chopin_ 'Nocturne'; three photograph frames neatly arranged with two candlestick holders; a shot-glass filled with seashells from Carmel when a seal had come up to her to say hello, and a trio of crackle-mercury mushrooms. The mushrooms had reminded her of _Fantasia_, and _Fantasia_ always reminded her of Ruby, so she had them on the piano, because she had been taught to play on this piano by her stepfather.

Arthur's letter was a lot to take in, yet at the same time, wasn't anything she didn't already know. With regards to the contents of Arthur's letter, she hadn't come to Beacon Hills unprepared. She knew what was happening, even if nobody else would ever dream of it.

She folded the letter carefully, tucking it back in its envelope, and sighed, plucking at the knees of her jeans before squatting down, tearing up the faded pink and purple diamond rug covering the natural wood floor; she reached for the small ring attached to one of the short floorboards, lifting it carefully, and revealed a narrow cubby in the floor, filled with several different things, not least of them a sort of apothecary-box made of mountain ash that contained samples of every kind of monkshood in the world. She picked up a second box made of mountain ash; it was a small, hand-carved lockbox, and she stored the letter inside it, along with a previous three years' worth of unsealed, plain white stationery.

Her kitchen was tiny; there was no oven, but a narrow built-in white-tiled cabinet contained several drawers and a very large white porcelain basin under an old-fashioned window, and a tall, narrow cupboard to the left of it, containing the small refrigerator she had bought, with shelves containing a _KitchenAid_, a handheld blender and most of her mixing- and serving-bowls. On the perpendicular wall, she had used washable wallpaper that mimicked colourful antique tiles, and had brought in two tables, both narrow, wooden, with two small drawers apiece; the one on the left bore a thick chopping-board and a selection of rubber-seal jars and tins, a pot of utensils and a knife-block; the other contained a miniature oven on the lower-shelf, while a large twin-burner camping-stove stood on the top, with a removable cover. Around the whole kitchen-area, a shelf had been put up above a border of patterned bluish-purple tiles and, above the sink, a clothing-rail with hooks, and above the tables, a strip of white-painted wood containing lots of little hooks. The shelves contained her glasses, jugs, measuring-cups, bottles of vinegar and sauces; the hooks bore her saucepans, whisks, colanders and cooking utensils.

A friend had recommended she watch Rachel Khoo's_ Little Paris Kitchen_, and she had taken her inspiration for the rudimentary kitchen straight from her home; though the door of Olive's cupboard was painted with _navy_ chalkboard paint. A third narrow table created a sort of corner for the kitchen-area, with two woven-seated chairs, creating a sort of island breakfast-bar where she could knead her dough for fresh bread (or clay, for her food miniatures) that led to the dining-area under the _huge_ window overlooking the porch and the woods.

She was preparing dinner for herself when suddenly something came barrelling into the room.

"_Stiles_!"

"Hey!"

"Don't you ever knock?"

"Uh, no," Stiles stammered, wide-eyed, and he glanced over his shoulder as something heavy and incredibly pale lurched through the doorway.

"_Derek_?"

* * *

**A.N.**: Please review. I was uncertain where to start with this fic, but I thought introducing Olive from pre-bite Isaac's perspective might be a nice change to having Scott or Stiles fall head over heels for her as soon as she steps foot in school. So this is an Isaac-OC fic, in case you didn't realise, and I'll be charting the story through until the end of season two, with changes made due to Olive's personal history and her friendship with Stiles. And now that I've finished writing this chapter, I can get back to writing _Pleiades_!


	2. Chapter 2

**A.N.**: Given the first chapter of this story came out to 11,000 words in length, I decided to make things a little easier and split it into two chapters, so sorry to everyone who added this story to their Alerts list, but I am working on the next new chapter right now, don't worry.

For new readers, please review _per chapter_. I put a lot of effort into writing this story, as you can probably tell by the quality of it, so please do me a favour and give me a thoughtful review!

* * *

**The Judgement of Actaeon**

_02_

* * *

_**Ten Minutes Earlier**_

* * *

"You know, maybe we should take you to the vet. Maybe you should get a shot for fleas," Stiles suggested, glancing at Derek as he bled out all over the upholstery of his admittedly crappy _Jeep_. With his good arm, Derek managed to slug him one. "_Ow_!" Stiles rolled his arm, sure it was already blackening with a bruise. "And maybe book you in to get _neutered_; I hear that's an effective way to limit testosterone in overly-aggressive male dogs." He shot a glare at Derek, who was glowering back so venomously, Stiles wondered why he wasn't turning to stone. "We're almost there."

"Almost where?" Derek panted softly.

"Um, your house."

"What?" Bleary-eyed, Derek glanced at him. "No, you can't take me there."

"I can't take you to your own house!" Stiles grimaced; he really hated Scott for this. It wasn't bad enough they had had to go through the terror of the full moon, wondering whether Scott would slaughter Allison or murder another bus-driver, now Stiles was being turned into an unwilling were-sitter. And he wasn't good with dogs.

"Not when I can't protect myself," Derek panted. Aggravated beyond belief by this cold, intimidating guy, Stiles gritted his teeth and jerked the steering-wheel, pulling over to the side of the road.

"What if Scott doesn't find your little magic bullet?" he demanded. "Hm? _Are you dying_?"

"Not yet," Derek panted, and Stiles rolled his eyes. "I have a last resort."

"What do you mean? What last resort?" Stiles frowned, and his stomach turned as Derek rolled up the sleeve of his sweater. "_Oh my god_, what is that? Oh, is that contagious?" Feeling decidedly queasy at the sight of Derek's gunshot wound, he forced himself to sit up a little straighter in his seat and pointed to the trees lining the road. "You know what, you should probably just get out."

"Start the car," Derek panted. "Now."

"Yeah, I don't think you should be _barking_ orders with the way you look, okay," Stiles scowled. "And in fact, I think if I wanted to, I could probably drag your little werewolf ass out into the middle of the road and leave you for dead."

"Start the car. Or I'm gonna rip your throat out," Derek glowered, pausing before adding, "With my teeth." Stiles gulped, staring at him, wondering whether he actually _would_ rip his throat out, because so far with all of his threats, Derek had yet to deliver. Not that Stiles was complaining, but he'd like it if the jerk would just stop intimidating his way into getting what he wanted; he had enough of that at school.

"Where am I even supposed to take you?" Stiles blurted. If he couldn't take Derek to his own burned-out home, Stiles sure as hell wasn't taking him home to his house, and he knew well enough to know that Mrs McCall couldn't do anything to help Derek despite her being a nurse.

"Olive's house," Derek grunted. Stiles did a double-take, blinking.

"You know Olive?"

"Yes, I know Olive," Derek growled softly.

"How do you know Olive?" Stiles stared.

"Just take me there—I know you know where she lives," Derek panted, still examining his arm; he looked _incredibly_ pale, more so than usual even. "I've seen you in pictures in her room."

"You've been in Olive's _bedroom_," Stiles grinned. "Oh, you sly dog—wait, she keeps a picture of _me_ in her bedroom?" Fidgeting, beyond thrilled, he giggled to himself. Before wondering how it was that Derek knew _Olive_, the new girl in town he had befriended after she had arrived at the Sheriff's office to ask whether someone could come out to the woods to check she was still alive if she didn't turn up to school, since she lived alone. She had a great book-collection and owned pretty much every horror movie ever made, and took great delight in scaring the shit out of Stiles while they watched their way through the collection.

"_Drive_," Derek growled.

"Fine," Stiles sighed.

He liked the drive to Olive's house; they left the civilisation of the Beacon Hills suburbs, almost taking a trip back in time, unpaved roads, to a small hunting-cabin in the woods without basic necessities like air-conditioning or an oven. Stiles' dad had been weird about letting a sixteen-year-old live out here, alone, but Stiles, even though they hadn't known each other very long, thought this place fit Olive. He pulled up beside her beautiful Impala, and Derek kicked his door open, staggering out of the Jeep.

"Open the door," Derek grunted, gesturing half-heartedly toward Olive's front-door.

"Aren't you forgetting the magic word?" Stiles asked, but at the black look Derek gave him, he hurtled up the front steps and slammed into the front-door, opening it, glad it wasn't locked or he'd have probably knocked himself out.

"_Stiles_!" Olive jumped and dropped a large knife she was using to cut vegetables, staring at him from the little kitchen-nook.

"Hey!" Stiles grinned, breathless.

"Don't you ever knock?" Olive frowned, not looking especially put out by his sudden appearance.

"Uh, no," Stiles panted, and he glanced over his shoulder as Derek lurched through the doorway.

"_Derek_?" Olive's demeanour changed instantly. Warm green eyes turned concerned and attentive, worrying her lower-lip as she wiped her hands on a dishtowel.

"Got shot with a wolfsbane bullet," Derek grated out, staggering to drop on the upcycled antique settee Olive was particularly fond of.

"Uh—not there! Thank you, please drag your bleeding ass onto the removable, washable denim slipcover," Olive frowned, pointing a finger authoritatively at the large, incredibly comfortable denim sofa with its back to the large fireplace. Derek gave her a glower, and Stiles was surprised at how _not-impressed_ Olive looked by his expression. He was even more surprised when Derek staggered over to the sofa, dropping down onto it with a huge sigh of relief, eyes closed and panting for breath, but being almost horizontal seemed to be good for him, as he regained a little bit of colour. Olive grimaced, going a little pale as she teetered toward Derek's injured arm. She looked away, looking a little queasy, and wrapped his forearm in the dishtowel to keep the blood off her sofa cover, and keep the bullet-wound and infection out of sight.

"Hang on a sec—you _know_?" Stiles blurted, staring at Olive, who blinked and glanced at him.

"Well, of course I know," she said, as if this should have been obvious.

"Wait a minute—are you—?"

"No, I'm not," Olive said quietly, averting her eyes from Derek's arm. Stiles, stunned by this new revelation (one in a series that seemed to be getting bigger and badder and more terrifying with every new day Stiles awoke with a best-friend who was a werewolf). "Do we know what kind of wolfsbane?" Olive asked, stumbling to her knees and making her way over to the edge of the rug, which she peeled back; sitting himself down on the settee, hugging the vibrant floral pillow, Stiles watched her lift a floorboard using a little ring, taking a box out from a hidden compartment.

"Not yet," Derek panted, head lolling against the back of the sofa. "Scott's looking. The Argent house."

"One of them did that to you?" Olive asked, glancing over her shoulder at Derek as she opened the box; Stiles peered closer, surprised to find the box filled with little jars full of dried flowers. "So much for their code. Unless they think you're the Alpha…"

"Kate Argent," Derek grunted, moaning in pain and gritting his teeth, peeling the dishtowel away to check on his wound. Stiles, watching Olive with a flabbergasted expression that couldn't possibly mirror how stunned he was on the inside, noticed how _still_ she became. Still, almost…_predatory_… He had seen her during her gymnastics training; grace and lethal accuracy, he wondered what she could accomplish with a weapon in her hands. And the expression on her face made it very clear she _wished_ she had a weapon in her hands. Whoever this Kate Argent was, Olive knew her name.

"She…" Olive swallowed, her eyes widening, going even paler—and to see Olive go pale was a striking experience, since her skin was such a deeply-tanned, rich olive tone, it was like someone had used the Eraser on _Photoshop_ across her face, all colour leaching. She turned on her knees, hand curled around a jar, and stared at Derek. "She's _here_?"

"Got into town last—night," Derek ground out, gritting his teeth and panting for breath. Olive gazed unseeingly at the mantelpiece, on which trinkets, potted flowers and two prominent photographs were displayed.

Olive was always quiet; she provided a gentle contrast to Stiles' hyperactivity, and in the month or so he'd known her, Olive had never been anything but kind, warm and full of humour. He'd never seen her _upset_, but her eyes were misty, and her jaw was set, making her cheekbones stand out.

She cleared her throat softly.

"If Scott can't find the strain, I hate to be the one to bring it up, but I hope you have a contingency plan," Olive said, glancing at Derek, who, eyes still closed, pale as death and sweating, panting for breath, nodded.

"You know, that really doesn't look like anything some Echinacea and a good night's sleep couldn't take care of," Stiles said, grimacing at the unveiled bullet-wound that Derek revealed, lurching off the sofa.

"When the infection reaches my heart…it'll kill me," Derek said, panting, as he staggered past the settee, to the door tucked in the far corner of the cabin, by Olive's piano, taking his shirt off as he went.

"Positivity just isn't your vocabulary, is it?" Stiles said, rolling his eyes as Derek opened the door and disappeared.

"If Scott doesn't tell us what's in the bullet, or gets here in time with one…" Derek panted, as a loud clattering noise came from the storage-room, "…last resort."

"Which is?" Stiles prompted.

Derek reappeared, propping himself against the doorframe, holding an axe.

"You're gonna help Olive are gonna cut off my arm."

Stiles stared. He stared at Derek, and then at the axe, and then at Olive, who was frowning bemusedly at Derek.

"I'm a little concerned that you knew how to find that so easily," she said, as she strode over and took the axe off Derek.

"Okay, hang on!" Stiles blurted, wide-eyed and definitely feeling like he was going to revisit his lunch. "_That's_ what's got you worried? Not the fact that he just asked you to lop off his _arm_."

Propping the axe on her shoulder, Olive regained some of her colour as she grinned. "Come on, Stiles. Go put on a dress, we can play Red Riding Hood. We've got the wolf—the woodcutter…"

"Hey, okay, I know you're just trying to bait me to take my mind off the impending amputation—and I'm powerless not to let it work, but why do you assume _I'd_ be Red?"

"Because you don't want to hack his arm off, do you?"

"Well, no—"

"And it's only a last resort," Olive smiled warmly, comforting him. She set the axe on the coffee-table. Stiles, staring at it, wondered just what kind of a house he had stumbled into, what kind of a _girl_ he had befriended, that she had an _axe_ in her pantry/laundry-room.

"What if he bleeds to death?" Stiles asked, gaping as Derek dropped onto the sofa with an extension-cord, wrapping it around the top of his arm.

"It'll heal if it works," Derek said, through gritted teeth.

"Okay, stop that, please," Olive frowned, taking the extension-cord off him. "Stiles, upstairs, my bedroom, in the far closet is my First Aid kit. Bring it down for me?"

"I'm allowed in your room—

"_Now_, Stiles!" Derek barked, and Stiles jumped out of the settee, sending his cushion flying as he leapt up the stairs, two at a time. The upstairs hall, barely more than a wide ledge without a banister, with two small windows at either end, featured two doors; one to a huge linen-closet with built-in cupboards, and Olive's bedroom, the universal shrine to all things feminine—at least Olive's interpretation of it. He giggled at the small rectangular wood plaque mounted to the wall above the panelling between the two doors, just below a neat little shabby-chic sectioned Roman numerals clock, above a neat little bowed-front bead-board hamper; it read simply,

'LAUNDRY

drop your pants here'.

"Stop giggling at my sign, Stiles, and get back down here," Olive called, and he glanced over his shoulder, remembering there was no wall or banister to block Olive's view upstairs from the open-plan room, and she stood with her hands on her hips, one dark eyebrow raised. He ran into her room.

"Hey, you finished decorating!" Stiles called, spinning in a circle, taking it all in before diving to the floor, wheeling the far closet door aside to reveal Olive's opulent but unused wardrobe, with a neat collection of boxes, plastic tubs and shoes arranged on the floor. "First Aid kit… First Aid kit…" A huge translucent white plastic tub contained a large sticker that shouted First Aid at him, and he grabbed it, dashing out of the room.

"Slow down!" Olive half-laughed. "I don't want to have to deal with any broken necks—or your dad's _gun_ when he finds out I let you break your neck tripping down my stairs!"

"I've been thinking…" Stiles said, grimacing as he watched Derek moaning and writhing on the sofa.

"Enough moaning and wailing, thank you," Olive shot at Derek, frowning gently, and Derek gave her a black look.

"I don't know if I can do this," Stiles said, his stomach turning as he watched Olive secure a tourniquet around Derek's arm, above the furthest spread of the blackened infection.

"Why not?" Derek grunted.

"Well, because of the cutting through the flesh, the sawing into the bone and especially the _blood_," Stiles grimaced, feeling…admittedly very faint. Derek gave him a very humourless look.

"You _faint_ at the sight of blood?"

"No, but I might at the sight of a chopped-off _arm_!"

"Alright, fine, how about this? Either you cut off my arm, or I'm gonna cut off your head."

"Okay, you know what, I am so not buying your threats—" He had remarkable speed for a guy who was dying, Stiles had to admit, even as his entire body seized up with terror and Derek grabbed the front of his shirt, glowering. "Oh my god, okay, bought, sold, totally, I'll do it—I'll do it—"

Olive slapped Derek round the back of the head. "He's so charming and sweet, that's why _I _like him," she said, giving Derek a reproving look. "We'll wait on Scott just a little longer, just until we hear from him." Derek suddenly went very quiet, and still; he lurched toward the kitchen, bumping Olive's little table with the glass bowl of rising dough, and retched; something _black_ splattered all over her porcelain sink.

"Holy god, what the hell is that?" Stiles whimpered disgustedly.

"My body—it's trying to heal itself—"

"Well, it's not doing a very good job of it," Stiles said, trying to keep the contents of his stomach down.

"Now," Derek panted, glancing at Olive. "You gotta do it now."

"Alright, come on, outside," Olive said. "There's a tree-stump you can lean against."

"Why not in here?"

"Um, the Sopranos call dismemberment the 'wet-works' for a reason! I'll never get the blood out. _Out_, I mean it, Derek! Stiles, help him!" Olive grabbed the axe, looking wide-eyed and pale, swallowing hard but steady-handed, and Stiles grabbed Derek around the waist as he used Stiles as a support, his feet seemingly no longer taking direction from his brain.

"Okay, so… Just…think of it like the beginning of _Prince of Thieves_, when the jailer chops off the guy's hand," Olive said, as she handed Stiles the axe; he stared at her, as Derek laid his arm on the tree-stump Olive had indicated. "Just…visualise…"

"No, you have to do it," Derek grunted, pale as death, and they both glanced quickly at Derek. He didn't have to do it? He didn't have to chop off somebody's arm while they were still alive like some _Criminal Minds_ sadist? He shoved the axe toward Olive, who was staring.

"Why me? You wanted Stiles to do it."

"Changed my mind. Seen his aim," Derek panted.

"Hey!" Stiles scowled. Derek gave him a withering look, then glanced at Olive.

"Taught you to throw a baseball when you were six," he panted, and Stiles glanced at Olive, surprised. She'd known Derek that long? "You're stronger anyway, from gymnastics training—"

"Okay, now hold on, what makes you think I'm any less strong than Olive?" Stiles asked, a little insulted. Derek gave him a look; Olive raised an eyebrow. "Okay, well, yeah, I've seen you do warm-ups. Fair play…"

"Visualise, follow through," Olive sighed to herself, swallowing, weighing the axe in her hands. She took a deep breath. "Alright, but you're paying for my next few months' worth of therapy bills." Derek gave her a dark look. "Stiles, back up, okay…" Stiles didn't need telling twice; he tripped over his own feet trying to get away. He stared, watching Olive; she had set her jaw in an expression of determination he had never seen before. Usually she was so relaxed, a kind smile on her face or a soft, thoughtful expression that made Stiles think she was daydreaming. Despite being utterly pale, Olive's hands were steady, her eyes wide but getting more and more calm as she steeled herself to swing. She rested the blade of the axe neatly where she wanted it to land, licked her lips, and raised it—

"What the hell are you doing?" someone shouted in the half-dark, and Stiles jumped, his stomach turning with joy as Scott rode up on his bike. With a shaky laugh, Stiles clambered over to his best-friend.

"Oh, thank God!" he laughed shakily. "You just prevented a lifetime of nightmares."

"Did you get it?" Derek grunted, as Scott scrambled off his bike. The axe went flying as Olive grabbed the rifle bullet from Scott's hand as he tugged it out of his pocket.

"I'll do it," she said, glancing at Derek. "Boys, get him inside." She ran into the cabin, as Scott helped Stiles heft a prone Derek off the ground.

"Whatever you're doing, you better do it fast!" Stiles shouted. "Olive! I think he's dying! I think he's dead!"

"Dump him there," Olive said, glancing over her shoulder to the empty space of floor between the door and the coffee-table in the living-area. Stiles did as he was told, and then was really glad when he remembered that Derek was actually passed out so he couldn't slash his throat for the not-exactly-gentle disposal. He watched, curious and jittery, stunned from the almost-amputation and thrilled at Scott's timely arrival, as Olive pulled the tip off the bullet, tapping the contents out onto the coffee-table, using a match from a box he didn't even think she owned—for some reason, Olive had a thing about fire—struck it, and set the wolfsbane alight. It sparked a foot high, bluish-white light and smoke trailing from the burning dried plant.

"Scott, get his arm," she directed, gently blowing out the last of the sparks, and Stiles stumbled onto the settee, cuddling and half-hiding behind his reclaimed cushion, watching; gathering the burned wolfsbane into her hand, Olive licked her lips, took a deep breath, and sprinkled the dried plant _into_ the open bullet-wound.

And then she pressed her finger into the wound, to make sure the wolfsbane was being properly packed into it. With a deep, agonised wolf's howl, Derek woke, contorting; with his free arm, he lashed out, catching Olive in the face, making her shriek with pain as Stiles very audibly heard something _snap_, dislodging Scott as he writhed and thrashed in pain, howling.

With a wisp of bluish white smoke, the blackish infection in Derek's arm just…vanished.

For a second, Derek lay on the floor of the cabin, panting, his colour returning in a rush, as Scott stared, and Olive held the discarded dishtowel to her face, eyes closed, a line of pain worrying her brow.

"That was _awesome_!" Stiles shouted gleefully, grinning. "Yes!"

He hadn't had to cut anyone's arm off!

"Are you okay?" Scott asked gently.

"Except for the agonising pain?" Derek said coolly.

"Guessing the ability to use sarcasm is a good sign of health," Stiles said drily. Derek gave him that patented look again, before glancing at Olive.

"Olive, you're bleeding," he said quietly, and Stiles glanced at Olive, before diving to the floor, eyes wide.

"It's okay," Olive said, her voice stifled by the dishtowel.

"Let me see," Derek said gently.

"It's reset itself," Olive said, her voice again muffled.

"Let me see," Derek said again, with surprising gentleness. Olive lowered the dishtowel, revealing a wash of blood, but no fresh flow of it; she licked her lips, used the dishtowel to wipe her face, and as Stiles watched, wide-eyed and stunned, her nose, which had been swollen, blackish-purple with two flourishing black eyes, went through the entire healing process in last than thirty seconds.

"I'm sorry," Derek said quietly, glancing at Olive's features to check for any other injuries.

"Good thing I did it, not Stiles," Olive said, giving Stiles a small smile before examining the dishtowel, sighing, and tossing it toward the small trash-can beside the refrigerator cabinet. Derek popped to his feet, frowning as he stalked over to the vintage-style sideboard by Olive's stone-topped round table, surrounded by beautiful 'Soren' walnut chairs, each with their own handmade, differently-upholstered cushion, and the clear glass teapot and a set of Turkish tea-glasses set on an enamelled silver tray as a centrepiece; tugging open the top drawer of the sideboard, Stiles heard something rustling, then Derek shut the drawer, came back to squat down beside Olive, and said, "Open."

Crinkling her lips thoughtfully, Olive glanced at Derek before parting her lips; he popped a strawberry _Crème Saver_ into her mouth. "You're fine. Close."

"Okay, we helped save your life," Scott said urgently, and Derek glanced at him as he helped Olive off the floor. "Now you're gonna leave us alone! You got that? And if you don't, I-I'm gonna go back to Allison's dad, and I-I'm gonna tell him everything—"

"_What_?"

Despite Derek having opened his mouth, his expression dangerous, icy fury, it wasn't him who had spoken: Olive was staring at Scott with an expression far deadlier than Derek's, because her features were usually so gentle and kind. Between the two, if angered, Stiles suddenly felt that he'd be wiser to be more afraid of _Olive_ carrying through with her threats.

"You're gonna trust them?" Derek asked, latching a hand around Olive's wrist, more of a preventative measure, because Olive stood stock still, staring at Scott as if she couldn't believe her ears, and wanted nothing better than to box his. "You think they can help you?"

"Why not?"

"Because they're cold-blooded murderers." This came from Olive; and again, Stiles was surprised by the expression on her face, the tone of her voice. At school, hanging out together, she was the mellow one; she didn't easily get riled or agitated, not the way Scott did, and she had a calmness to her that seemed…transcendent. But now she looked deadly. "You and Derek may be werewolves, but they're bloodthirsty animals."

"What're you talking about?"

"The Argents have a long family-history of Hunting werewolves," Olive said quietly, a still fury lacing her words. "They're supposed to live by a code. But everywhere they go—especially the sister, Kate—that code is somehow forgotten. Families are destroyed, innocent people—werewolves—are mindlessly slaughtered. You saw what she did to Derek."

"She thought he was the Alpha."

"She wouldn't have cared whether he was the Alpha or not," Olive corrected coolly. "To her, whoever she hit was just another dead body, another werewolf out of the way. To someone like her, a sociopathic killer, it doesn't matter that Derek's never spilt human blood—it won't matter to her that _you've_ never spilt human blood, the way it should. '_Nous chassons ceux qui nous chaser_' is their code."

"We hunt those who hunt us," Stiles translated, glancing at his best-friend. Whoever this Kate Argent was, she had obviously had something to do with Olive in the past; and by the expression on Derek's face, with his, too.

"And _only_ those who hunt them," Olive said, and her voice returned to its normal gentle tone as she murmured, "Or should be. The Argents claim they only kill adults—with _solid_ irrefutable evidence that they've spilt human blood. Which explains why Allison's father brought his sister in as reinforcements to track the Alpha."

"But what about Scott?" Stiles frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"Allison's dad shot him with a crossbow," Stiles said, glancing at his best-friend.

"It was on the full-moon," Derek said quietly. "Hunters send parties out every month, waiting for the chance to kill a werewolf, any werewolf. Even ones who have learned complete control over the moon's influence."

"Hunters very rarely have the competence to observe that it's the young werewolves, the newly-bitten, who can't control their rage on the full moon—the ones who, like Scott, were bitten by chance and left seemingly alone," Olive said. "Who haven't had the time or don't have a mentor to teach them how to control their rage, to find that anchor that keeps them human. It's the older generations of werewolves who have to teach the new ones, but they can't do that if they're all the time trying to dodge gunfire. And Kate Argent is a _big_ fan of guns."

"They seemed nice," Scott said uncertainly, glancing from Olive to Derek, whose eyebrows contracted, his eyes glowing.

"Oh, I can show you just how _nice_ they are," he said ominously.

* * *

Stiles, with Scott's bike in the back of his Jeep, gave Derek a lift to his house, leaving Olive alone in the cabin, jittery, and a little upset.

Not about her nose; she'd suffered worse during her training, and anyway, she always healed.

She brought out her phone from her bag, dialling Arthur's number. On the second ring, he picked up. Upset, her eyes burning, she swallowed with difficulty, and said hoarsely, her voice breaking, "She's _here_. In Beacon _Hills_."

"_Kate Argent_?" Squeezing tears out of her eyes, Olive nodded.

"Yes." Arthur sighed heavily at the other end of the line.

"_You know your job is to Watch, Olive_," Arthur said warmly.

"Emotion can't get in the way," she said hoarsely.

"_No!—keep hold of that emotion_," Arthur said, his tone surprised. "_Use it to remain vigilant. You of anyone know what this woman is capable of_."

"Why wasn't she put down years ago?" Olive whispered, wiping her eyes, her chest in pains she couldn't describe. "I've never met any animal more bloodthirsty and rabid than her… Why have you let her get away with her behaviour for so long?" A deep sigh from Arthur.

"_You_ _know that's not the way we work_," he said gently.

"It should be," Olive said, gritting her teeth as fresh tears scattered down her cheeks.

"_Then we would be no better than them_," Arthur reminded her.

"But she would never have been able to… It wouldn't have happened if you'd taken care of her after the Hale fire," Olive said hoarsely, wiping her cheeks.

"_We don't know one of her fellow Hunters wouldn't have acted on her behalf_," Arthur said sorrowfully.

"Only _she_ would have killed innocents without a second thought," Olive cried softly, squeezing her eyes shut. "There's no way any other Hunter would have found out… Mo was always so careful, especially with Ruby…" Her voice tired, heartbroken, she whispered softly, "How did she know they were werewolves?"

* * *

**A.N.**: Every time I watch Isaac Lahey on TW, he gets more and more delicious. Not a big fan of his badass phase; that'll be covered in this story because Olive won't like it either!

So I think the first episode of _Teen Wolf_ occurs on the first day of school; the lunar cycle for August 2011 had the full-moon on like the twelfth, which would be too early for California high-schools to get back in session.

The September full-moon was on the twelfth, which puts the first day of school on the eighth, which is more plausible. And as best I can figure it, the episode 'Lunatic' is the only full-moon episode since 'Wolf Moon', which puts 'Lunatic' on October 12th… So 'Magic Bullet' and 'The Tell' are sometime in late September/early October, because 'Night School' occurs about four days before 'Lunatic'…

If the school winter formal is on the second of February, Isaac's first full moon is on the seventh of that month. So I have late-September to the end of January to fill with stuff of my own creation before the character of Isaac becomes involved with the actual canon plot.


	3. Chapter 3

**A.N.**: For anyone who's interested, I made a board on _Pinterest_ for this story; just type in 'Teen Wolf Olive' and you should find it! I have a very solid image of how Olive's cabin is decorated, and the idea of Olive still having the dollhouse her father made for her got me thinking of _Petit-Plat_, the food-miniaturist, and thus, Olive's hobby was created. If you've ever seen _Stick It_, Haley is the level at which Olive competes in gymnastics.

I also don't think they wrote Allison's mother's character right; if Mr Argent is the strict, hard-ass parent, I think Mrs Argent should have been warmer, softer, more lenient, perhaps the one who understood that Romeo and Juliet killed themselves because their parents wouldn't let them see each other. So that's how I'm going to write her. I'm not sure yet whether I'm going to follow canon and have Derek bite her when she's, you know, trying to slaughter _Scott_ for _Allison_ not keeping her legs closed. Maybe I'll have Peter bite her in the series one finale?

Due to my own disgust for how whiny and pathetic Allison was in 'Night School' and just generally being the bane of every Suffragette in existence, I've written Olive into a pretty important twist on the canon version, to give Allison the verbal slap she really needs! And give a hint at Olive's family history.

Oh, also, I'm not sure whether I want this story to take place in 2011 or 2012, as in, the 2012-2013 school-year, so I can put in a few movies the kids can go and see, because I've just seen the trailer for _Expendables 2_, and it looks AWESOME!

* * *

**The Judgement of Actaeon**

_03_

* * *

If she related to any fictional character, it was the Doctor. Watching a clip of _Doctor Who_ on her iPod, waiting for Isaac, she watched the beautiful Helen McRory jump to her death, '_remember us…dream of us…_' The Doctor bore the weight of his own annihilated species on his conscience; the very, very last of his kind. Very old, and very kind, and the very last of his kind…

That episode always made her heartsick. The Doctor, always trying to save everybody, without violence, just…his two hearts encompassing the universe.

A slim shadow wavered in the periphery, and Olive wiped her eyes, giving a watery smile as she glanced up.

"Are you alright?" Isaac asked softly, his blue eyes gentle and concerned as he took in her features. Olive smiled, heaving a sigh. Indicating her iPod, she said softly, "Sad episode."

"What were you watching?" Isaac asked, glancing at her iPod, then back to her face.

"_Doctor Who_," Olive smiled unabashedly; she wasn't embarrassed about liking _Doctor Who_, or enjoying nature programmes or watching cooking shows.

"I thought _Doctor Who_ was about aliens," Isaac said, frowning subtly. Olive smiled.

"It is," she admitted. Indicating her _iPod_ again, she said, "Fish from space masquerading as a vampire tries to repopulate her race after her entire planet is lost." Isaac raised his eyebrows.

"Right…" he said, and then laughed softly. He had an _incredible_ smile, but it was quick to disappear. Because his lip was split. He started, as if his smile had caused him physical pain, tugging at the split skin, and he licked his lip, wincing, and glanced at Olive.

Clearing her throat softly, she glanced at her _iPod_ before carefully wrapping her earphones around it and tucking it into the front-pocket of her backpack. "So…chemistry. I didn't know where you wanted to work."

"Um, I don't really mind," Isaac said softly. Olive gazed up at him, relishing how _tall_ he was, and nodded.

"How about the bleachers?" she suggested. "Out on the football field?" Silent, Isaac strode beside her out to the football-field, which was quiet, abandoned; tugging their chemistry textbooks and notebooks out, they found their notes they had written during their experiment, opening the textbook up to the appropriate pages, and Olive tugged her laptop out of its protective case. "I thought we might as well get it typed up now, I could print it during my free-period and give it to Harris before the end of the day."

"Do you have credit on your library-card?" Isaac asked, glancing at her.

"I knew I'd forgotten to do something!" Olive grimaced, shaking her head and sighing heavily, her shoulders slumping. "This is why my mother always had me put twenty dollars on my student card for lunch emergencies." She fell into a quiet, depressed mood, eyes unseeing as she gazed at the springy terracotta-red track encircling the Astro-turf football field.

"We can…" Isaac cleared his throat softly. "We can use my card, there should be a few cents left on it for printing." Olive gave him a sad smile, and brought out her packed lunch, never one to skip out on meals, and Isaac smiled shyly as he tugged a brown-bag lunch out of his backpack.

"Okay, so…" Olive sighed, lugging her textbook into her lap, laying her notebook atop it. "We should probably get this report out of the way…" Harris didn't want a very long report; as sophomores in Intermediate Chemistry, the bar wasn't set very high for the quality of their written assignments, but in the last year, her academic success had pushed her to _want_ to go just the little extra mile on her assignments, because she now knew she could do it.

"I wish I'd taken Chemistry at my last school now," Olive sighed, typing quickly as she and Isaac went through notes and the textbook.

"Did you take Biology?" Isaac asked, as he sipped his water. Olive nodded.

"Yeah, twice," she sighed softly. Isaac gave her a perplexed look; setting her _Juicy_ _Juice_ box down on the bench, Olive sighed. "I, um… I had to repeat freshman-year." Isaac was quiet for a moment, before giving her a thoughtful, shy look.

"Something happened with your family," he guessed succinctly, and Olive glanced at him. Had he remembered what she'd said yesterday, about it being 'just her' now? Without answering properly, she nodded.

"It wasn't a total waste," she said thoughtfully, glancing out over the field.

"No?"

"By the time my second freshman-year came around, I was the top student in my Geometry class," Olive said, beaming at Isaac. "That doesn't say much for the rest of the kids in my class, but it was a real confidence-boost for me." Isaac chuckled.

"You weren't so good at math?" Isaac smiled understandingly.

"I was awful," Olive chuckled softly.

"You're in Algebra 2 this year, aren't you?" Isaac asked, glancing at her. "On your schedule yesterday, it said you were…"

"I am," Olive confirmed. Isaac nodded, clearing his throat shyly.

"Um… Do you think…maybe you could tutor me?" he asked her uncertainly, glancing at her shyly.

"Well… I'm no expert," Olive said, not wanting him to get the wrong impression; she had worked _hard_ last year. "I mean, my first year, I really struggled. But last year, being the top in my class…it really boosted my confidence, academically; it got me wanting to actually put a lot more effort into studying… Do you need help already?"

"I'd…" Isaac cleared his throat, eyes gentle but…wary, almost _afraid_. The same way he'd looked before receiving his D-graded essay yesterday from Harris. "I'd just…rather not wait 'til I've fallen behind…to ask for help." Olive nodded, pushing her straw out of her mouth with her tongue, and licked her lips.

"You don't like to get bad grades?" Olive guessed. She knew athletes had to maintain a certain grade-point average to remain on the team, and that same GPA affected how affordable or outrageous car-insurance would be to each individual kid who had a licence.

"No, I…_can't_ get bad grades," Isaac said, blinking several times before licking his lips, casting a wary glance at her; she wondered whether his previous black eyes and current split lip had anything to do with him not wanting to get bad grades. Olive sighed softly, offering Isaac the little plastic Easter-egg she had put a tiny handful of _Jelly Belly Beans_ in for a lunchtime treat.

"If you want…we can study together, sometimes," she said shyly. There were things in her life that Olive was good at, confident at: gymnastics; cooking; her hobbies. Repeating a grade had actually turned out to be incredibly beneficial to her self-confidence where academics were concerned. But there were things she was still very much in the learning process with; talking to cute boys.

Specifically, talking to incredibly pretty-eyed, soulful boys like Isaac Lahey. In her previous schools, Olive had always been relatively outgoing, confident in her social-skills if not a complete social-butterfly; she had always had a good circle of devoted friends, and been invited to parties and on dates. In the last year, she had started to really _date_ boys, to learn how they ticked, what worked, what they liked, and what she liked them doing for her. But every boy she had gone out on a date with had been…confident. She would have said 'like Jackson', except none of the guys she had ever dated were the world's biggest narcissists. The boys she had gone out on dates with were…like openly-gay Danny; self-confident, with a good head on their shoulders, and _kind_.

Isaac seemed sweet—_very_ sweet—but he was the most confidence-deprived person she had ever met.

He glanced at her, shy and quiet, and nodded slightly. "What about Stiles and Scott?"

Olive let out a soft laugh. "Stiles has usually had too much Adderall to do much of the sitting-still part required for studying." Isaac gave her a very sweet smile, eyes twinkling. "I'd probably go crazy trying to study with him around…"

"So how did you and Stiles become friends?" Isaac asked softly. "I mean…you already seem close, and you only just moved here."

"Well…when I got to Beacon Hills, you know, I thought, teenage girl, living by herself in a cabin in the woods… I thought someone should know I'd moved out there, at least," Olive smiled. "So I asked the Sheriff if he could send someone to the cabin if I miss more than three days of school together without an explanation for my absence."

"He didn't ask why you moved in by yourself?" Isaac asked curiously. Olive shook her head; the only person she'd told, the Sheriff was understanding of her situation.

"No, but he figured out I'd be a sophomore like his son," Olive smiled warmly, glancing at Isaac. "So he introduced me to Stiles, so I'd have someone to talk to on my first day of school. And it turns out we became really good friends."

"Just like that?" Isaac said softly, looking slightly surprised.

"That's how it works, isn't it?" Olive smiled at him. "All friendships, all relationships, start with someone saying hello. At least, in my experience." Isaac smiled, and it was a sad smile; he nodded and sipped his water. "Anyway, like you said, the Sheriff wasn't totally okay with me living by myself; once a week I go over to the Stilinski house for dinner."

"That's real nice of them," Isaac said softly. "To make you feel welcome."

"Yeah," Olive smiled warmly. She did really like Stiles and his stern but warm-hearted dad. The two of them played off each other's remarkably similar sense of humour, and their relationship was a symbiotic one, Stiles helping the Sheriff solve cases at work, the Sheriff clipping Stiles around the ear for sneaking glances at confidential police files. "Really, I think the Sheriff likes having me over because I always bring a full-fat dessert." Isaac laughed. "And I sneak him curly-fries whenever Stiles isn't looking, so…"

"Yeah, Stiles is okay," Isaac said softly, gazing out over the field. "I mean, he's hyperactive, and everyone knows he's a bit…"

"Eccentric?"

"Yeah," Isaac chuckled, casting her a smile that took her breath away. "But he's a good guy."

"He is," Olive agreed. "Have you always lived in Beacon Hills?"

"Me? Yeah," Isaac said, sighing softly. Olive nodded.

"I guess it must be kind of nice that you go to school with kids you've known all your life," she said softly, thoughtful.

"I guess," Isaac said softly, clearing his throat as he glanced at her. "Except when people forget you're not the same ten-year-old kid who liked comic-books."

"You liked comic-books?" Olive smiled.

"Yeah, I'm…a comic-book nerd," Isaac said quietly, clearing his throat and blushing subtly as he glanced at his notebook.

"I wouldn't worry about that; Seth Cohen made comic-book nerds extremely sexy," Olive said, and Isaac gave her one of his incredibly sweet smiles.

"What did you like when you were ten?" he asked.

"I liked dollhouses and _Harry_ _Potter_ and baseball-cards," Olive said thoughtfully, sipping the last of her _Juicy Juice_ box.

"_You_ like baseball?"

"I love baseball," Olive smiled. "It's my favourite sport."

"Not gymnastics?"

"Gymnastics is elitist; I like that baseball…is for everyone," she said thoughtfully. "You can always enjoy baseball, no matter how old or inflexible you are." Isaac laughed.

"Sorry, I just got this image in my head of the _NBA_ teams getting a new leotard uniform," he laughed softly, and Olive giggled, grinning. "So thank you for that."

"That would make the game a lot more interesting to watch," she smirked, and Isaac grinned; it was a _deliciously_ cheeky grin.

"So, you're on the gymnastics team here?" Isaac prompted.

"I was considering not joining," Olive admitted, sighing softly. "I kind of…wanted a change of pace. But gymnastics has always been the one constant in my life, no matter what else was happening. And I look good in the _Cyclone_-red leotard, so…"

"I thought the same thing when I tried out for the Lacrosse team," Isaac smiled playfully, and Olive chuckled, smiling.

"You know, with you and Stiles and Scott all on the team," she said thoughtfully, "I might actually have to come and see one of these lacrosse games."

"I hope you don't expect Coach to put me or Stiles out on the field," Isaac said quietly, glancing at Olive, and she smiled, knowing there was a reason Stiles kept the bench warm. He was enthusiastic, but not the best player; and while it was always good to have someone like that on the team, it didn't necessarily mean it was good to put him on the field.

"Why is it Lacrosse in Beacon Hills, anyway?" Olive asked curiously. "What's wrong with football?"

"Our football-teams suck," Isaac said, and Olive chuckled.

"It seems a waste to have this stadium," Olive said thoughtfully. "I mean, why doesn't the Lacrosse team use it for their games?"

"I don't know," Isaac shrugged slightly. "But we have that huge pool, and the swim-team hasn't won State since my brother was… Since my brother was on the team."

The way his voice had faltered caught Olive's attention, and she glanced at Isaac, noticing his features had softened, his eyes darkened with emotion and a hint of shine, as if he'd just upset himself. "You have a brother?" she prompted softly.

"Uh… I…_had_ a brother," Isaac said, swallowing, and he glanced at her, eyes troubled and upset. "He, uh… He went out to Iraq, so…" And he had been killed in combat; Isaac didn't have to say it for Olive to understand.

She felt a sudden, unbreakable connection to Isaac Lahey in that moment. He had lost his sibling to a probably-violent death, too.

Swallowing, licking her lips, Olive reached into the front-pocket of her backpack for her wallet, from which she pulled a small, colourful photograph of a stunning sunset in Monument Valley, the last family-vacation she had had. A stranger had taken the picture, zooming into the four faces of the small, close-knit family. Two girls hugged each other, grinning from ear to ear, one so darkly tanned like chestnuts that of the two sisters, she looked to be the one with Afro-Fijian roots, when actually it was the younger girl, with amazingly out-of-control hair, who had that ethnic descent; and the two adults in the picture—one gently tanned with sparkling eyes and long, sugary-blonde hair; the other, black as the richest cocoa, handsome to the extreme and tall, muscled—had their arms around each other, beaming.

"That's Ruby," she said softly, pointing to the younger girl, something hitting her in the chest, right where her heart was. It was like a hundred running-cramps had hit her at once, and she kneaded the heel of her palm against her heart, wincing. She sighed softly, as Isaac took the small photo. "She's gone, too." Isaac glanced at her, eyes wide. She gave him a very sad smile. "Having someone say they're sorry just isn't enough, is it."

"No," Isaac said, barely louder than a breath. He cleared his throat softly. "Your family looked happy."

"We were," Olive beamed, clasping her hands and leaning her head against them, elbows against her knees.

"This is your stepfather?" Isaac asked, pointing a slender finger at the man in the photograph.

"Yep. That's Moses," Olive smiled warmly. "I, uh… I never actually knew my natural father. Mo was the only daddy I ever had, so…"

"He's handsome," Isaac observed, and Olive nodded, chuckling.

"I had a friend who used to tease me that it was a good thing Mo wasn't my biological father, because when I got old enough I could steal Moses away from my mother and marry him myself," she said, and Isaac flashed that cheeky smile. "Chantal's gonna have quite a life ahead of her."

"This is your mother," Isaac said, nodding, as he gazed at the beautiful blonde woman in the photo.

"That's my mommy," Olive said softly, her heart crumpling.

"She's beautiful… She looks familiar," Isaac said, and Olive glanced at him.

"Well, her picture's in the trophy-case in the lobby," she said; her first day at Beacon Hills High, she'd had to wait outside the office, and she'd spent the time waiting looking in the trophy cabinet. She'd been amazed at how much family-history she'd found stored in there, more than she'd ever learned about her parents during their high-school days than in her entire life.

"She went to Beacon Hills?" Isaac said, eyebrows raised, surprised.

"She and my father both did; my father's family was actually in Beacon Hills for like a hundred and fifty-odd years," Olive said; her mother had always told her that, that was why they always came back to Beacon Hills at least once a year. The Royea family and the Hales had been friends for generations.

"What was his name?" Isaac asked.

"Oliver Royea."

"Royea…as in Royea Lumber?"

"Royea Lumber, Royea Beef, Royea Construction," Olive sighed, glancing at Isaac. "My grandfather sold the company after my father died. But my father, Oliver, he was captain of the football-team, shooting-guard for the basketball-team, pitcher on the All-State baseball team, and voted Most Handsome in his senior yearbook," Olive beamed proudly, and Isaac smiled. "And my motherwas captain of the cheerleading squad and on the gymnastics team, and she was student-body president and she went to her junior and senior formals with my dad."

"They were high-school sweethearts," Isaac said, with a small, very sweet smile. Olive nodded, beaming.

"They met at sixteen, got married at twenty-one, and I was born when my mother was twenty-four," she said softly, smiling.

"You have your mother's eyebrows," Isaac said, glancing at her.

"Oh, that's not a good thing. She had a bit of a Brooke Shields phase," Olive chuckled, and Isaac grinned.

"Now, there is nothing wrong with that," he said quietly, smiling.

"_Blue Lagoon_ fan?" Olive teased.

"A half-naked Brooke Shields on a tropical-island? You know, I can't think of anything wrong with that picture," Isaac smirked playfully.

"Well, the following year she made _Endless Love_, which made me want to slit my wrists, so…" Isaac laughed.

"I'm getting the impression you don't like chick-flicks," Isaac said, with the first flash of teasing confidence.

"Horror-movies are far more realistic," Olive said, with a chuckle, and Isaac laughed. "I don't want you to think I'm not a girly-girl who doesn't love romance. Because I am, and I do like love-stories; I just prefer to read them. So I don't have to pay to watch Miley Cyrus or Zac Efron at the movie-theatre." Isaac nodded as she grimaced. "What about you, what kind of movies do you like?"

"Action," Isaac nodded, glancing at her. "Or comedy. The Marx brothers."

"Classic," Olive smiled; for some reason, Ruby, who had always been into of-the-moment trends, had laughed until she cried, watching Marx Brothers movies.

"What's your favourite movie?"

"It depends on my mood," Olive admitted, "and I have a lot of them!" Isaac laughed softly. "If I had to name a handful, not including the horror genre…_The Lord of the Rings_ series, _A Star is Born_, _Seven Brides for Seven Brothers_, _Kingdom of Heaven_,_ The Life of Brian_ and…_Matilda_ and _Willy Wonka_."

"Is that with Gene Hackman?"

"Gene Wilder," Olive corrected, smiling.

"I've never actually seen it," Isaac said, clearing his throat softly, and Olive stared.

"You've _never_ seen _Willy Wonka_?"

"Nope," Isaac smiled subtly. "My family were always _National_ _Lampoon_, _Duck Soup_ or _Uncle Buck_ fans on movie-night."

"John Candy!" Olive beamed. "'_You should've seen the toast, I couldn't even fit it through the door_'! I love _Uncle_ _Buck_. Actually, I can remember always watching it whenever I came to stay with my grandfather here. He laughed so hard he'd cry. When the bowling-ball lands on his head!" Isaac smiled.

"My favourite scene is where he crashes the party," he chuckled, giving that sweet smile again, and Olive laughed.

"The amateur dentist scene," she smiled, and they both laughed. Softly, she said, "I can't believe you've never seen _Willy_ _Wonka_."

"No, but I can repeat Marx brothers movies line for line," Isaac said, smiling.

"_Duck Soup_ was my sister's favourite," Olive said, smiling sadly. "If it was my stepdad's choice on movie-night, it was always _Life_ _of_ _Brian_."

"I do like _Life of Brian_," Isaac nodded, smiling subtly.

"I watched it a _lot_ over the last two years," Olive said, taking her photograph back, and putting it back in her wallet after looking at it carefully for a second. "Eric Idle really spoke to me. '_Always look on the bright side of life_'…" Isaac pulled a thoughtful, if somewhat ironic expression, which Olive chose not to comment on, because he cleared his throat and shot her a small smile. She cleared her throat softly, turning back to her laptop.

"So, I think we're nearly done," she said, glancing at the _Word_ document before glancing at Isaac with a smile.

"That wasn't as painful as I was expecting," Isaac said, peering at the screen.

"I think we just have to put in a conclusion, and our _names_, and we can print it off," Olive said, smiling; she hated doing homework at, well, _home_. If she could get it done between school-hours, it was a bonus that meant she could go for a long run or spend a little extra time in the gymnastics gym, or make something really nice for herself for dinner.

"We could be done before lunch is over," Isaac said, with one of his quiet, subtle smiles.

They _did_ finish before the end of lunch, even despite chatting easily about the music on Olive's music library, surprising Isaac with her love of old-school mo-town, Memphis blues and 1960s rock and punk, the music Isaac liked and who, of every musician alive or dead they'd rather have play at their birthday. Olive sent the document to Isaac's school email, which he accessed in the library to print off the report; Olive paid the librarian a dollar for a portfolio file to keep the report neat and clean in, and before heading off to their classes, Isaac and Olive found Mr Harris getting ready for his first after-lunch class, and handed in their report.

"Guess I'll…see you…" Isaac said, clearing his throat softly, and Olive smiled.

"Yeah," Olive smiled. Before the bell rang, slender Isaac had smiled sweetly and disappeared to another corridor for his own class, while Olive made her way to Classics.

She sat alternately doodling, paying attention and taking notes, and daydreaming about Isaac Lahey's sweet smile all the way through her Classical Civilisation class. And her AP Latin class, and gymnastics practice, and she wondered what Isaac liked to eat as she prepared her dinner, and fell asleep, after doing her homework and working on some of her miniatures, thinking about Isaac's incredibly pretty lips.

* * *

It was with an enormous groan that everyone received the news from Coach Finstock that the class—which was made up of the JV football-players, the Lacrosse team and a handful of cheerleaders, Lydia Martin, the pale other new girl Allison, and Olive—were to run a mile, as they had to with every different sport they covered throughout the year. They all filed out to the football-field, grumbling, and when Isaac caught her eye, standing in roll-call order on the field, hands in the hem of his t-shirt, tall and skinny, Olive smiled back, blushing a little.

"Okay, what's going on there?" Stiles asked, giving her an appraising look; Olive blinked, blushing, and glanced away. Stiles glanced from Olive to Isaac and back, his eyes glowing, a grin toying at his lips. "_Oh_!"

"What?" Olive blushed. Stiles shrugged, smirking.

"I just… Well, I was wondering what your type was," he said, smirking again. "Guess tall and pretty-eyed boys are it. I mean, who can say 'no' to a guy who turns up for gym-class in combat-boots? Very wrong-side-of-the-tracks Ponyboy Curtis." Olive gave Stiles a look, smiling, and focused on Coach Finstock as he gave the order for volunteers to lead warm-ups.

"Jackson! Danny! Greenberg! I don't care if _you_ _don't_ _wanna_, get up off your ass and start leading warm-ups, you've got parent-teacher conferences comin' up, don't give me a reason to badmouth you in front of your own flesh and blood—Royea, up here as well, get the boys motivated," Coach called, and Olive sighed, gently slapping palms with Stiles as she wandered past him, up to the front of the roll-call.

Danny gave her a soft smile as she took her place beside him. She didn't tend to spend a lot of time socialising with most everybody at Beacon Hills High; but Danny was quite sweet, and Olive couldn't fathom how he was best-friends with the world's most egocentric tool, but he was.

"Hey, so I heard the gymnastics team has a meet coming up," Danny said, as they did push-ups, and Olive glanced at him.

"Uh, yeah…two weeks' time," she said, a little bemused.

"I heard you were incredible at the first meet," Danny said; Olive glanced at him.

"You did?" Most kids at Beacon Hills High didn't even know they had a gymnastics team.

"My first boyfriend's on the team," Danny said, smiling softly. "We're still really good friends, so I try and go to his competitions."

"Who?" Olive asked curiously; the boys on the team were the most lethally strong boys in the entire school; they made every other athlete pale in comparison. But they trained on the other half of the gym, with their specialist equipment, the rings and pommel-horse.

"Gabe," Danny smiled, and Olive beamed.

"Ah," she said softly. "He, um… He thinks I should embrace my flexibility to score myself some dates." Danny laughed. "He was absolutely amazing on the still-rings. Great starting-value, too."

"I missed the first meet," Danny said, grimacing as he did another push-up. "But I'm planning to come to the next one. Might get to see you in action." Olive smiled.

"You're gonna waste your time watching _gymnastics_?" Jackson scoffed.

"Gymnastics is hard-core," Danny countered gently.

"Really," Jackson sniffed.

"Don't pretend you haven't noticed Olive's legs," Danny said to Jackson, who gave him a withering look; not particularly as flattered as Jackson probably thought she should be that he'd noticed her muscle-tone, Olive switched to sit-ups. "After we finish running, maybe Olive can show you a thing or two," Danny suggested coolly. Outside of the gym, she didn't like to show off her talent with gymnastics; she had been trained, hard, and from a young age, by incredibly talented coaches. Her mother had had the money to pay for the best coaching, and Olive loved the sport, so it was a labour of love, not a chore, to practice. But unlike the cheerleaders who showed off their splits in front of the whole male-dominated P.E. class, and the guys who raced to complete a six-minute mile, she didn't like drawing attention to her gymnastics.

If Olive had a fault—and she had many; it was just that there were so few people close to her to could notice and point them out—it was of _not_ making a big deal out of herself, preening her plumage and showing off every once in a while. In the previous two years, she'd had so many people staring at her, for a completely different reason, that eyes on her just felt…like being stared at would always be connected with_ that_…not her gymnastics, or a pretty dress, or liquid eyeliner she'd managed to get perfectly matched, or a great grade on a killer test or sticking a Produnova perfectly on vault.

That's why she hadn't told anybody about her family. Not Stiles, not anybody. Ms Morrell, her guidance-counsellor knew, and she was sure Stiles' dad knew, but out of respect for her privacy, the Sheriff hadn't said anything to his son. What had happened to her family wasn't exactly something she wanted to be known for. So she kept to herself, delighting in her weird new hyperactive friend Stiles and stroppy but big-hearted Scott; her cabin; the craft store downtown near the bookstore where she was already trusted enough to close up in the evenings and had the combination to the safe; the enormous mall and the IMAX movie-theatre.

After warm-ups were finished, they had to line up on the track; everybody jostling, the more aggressive boys trying to get and keep their place right on the starting-line so nobody could get in front of them, Olive picked her spot and stretched carefully. Previously a girly-girl who loved vintage clothes, dollhouses and gymnastics, inside, Olive was still that girl, but she had also always been an active girl who had thrilled in tumbling and _running_, too.

Most days, Olive went through her classes and P.E. without dramatic incident; she smiled at people who made eye-contact, was polite to teachers and always handed her homework in on time: she ate lunch with Stiles and Scott; didn't disrupt her classes; took notes and was never late to gymnastics practice. She didn't give Coach Finstock some lame excuse about forgetting to wash her gym-kit so she could get out of P.E. for the day simply because she didn't want to play basketball. Before chatting with Isaac, she hadn't noticed any of the boys at Beacon Hills High, mostly because she didn't particularly want to; she had done dating, and been the dating-girl, and part of the reason she didn't want to be that girl anymore was because that part of her life had been a huge mess, and she didn't want to slip back into old, bad routines.

But boy was she beginning to notice Isaac Lahey! Tall and skinny, the more she paid attention to him, the more she noticed nobody else seemed to; he was quiet and polite, well-spoken, and had a breathtaking smile Olive rarely got to see. He was shy and sweet and, in short, completely and utterly adorable.

She found herself daydreaming about him, smiling whenever he caught her eye… They didn't exactly have in-depth conversations, but every time they met at their lockers, they now said hello, and Olive noticed more and more when Isaac turned up at school with a fresh bruise.

Consistently, he blamed lacrosse practice for his injuries; every time Olive heard him say that, she believed him less and less.

But each time she saw him, Olive would get that feeling in her stomach, a weightlessness and a sheer thrill of undiluted happiness, she couldn't breathe properly, she found herself blushing and laughing more whenever they paused to talk to each other. She found herself going out of the way to talk to Isaac during class, especially P.E., where he became their fourth if she, Stiles and Scott were forced to play teams for the last days of their basketball unit.

It had only been a few days since Derek's poisoning, and Olive hadn't heard much from him; he was trying to track the Alpha's movements. But even if Olive had wanted to, there was no getting rid of Stiles.

She liked to run; and was a fast runner, so the only person who beat her was Scott, and only because Allison had teased him for being a slow runner a few days ago. Olive had to wait for Stiles to finish, and spent the few minutes just enjoying having the leisure to watch Isaac run. Panting, clutching a cramp in his side, Stiles staggered over the finishing-line and collapsed on the Astro-turf beside Olive as she sat warming-down.

"Hey…" Stiles panted, sprawled on his back on the grass. "Friday's parent-teacher conferences. Are we still on for a movie-night while my dad's at the school?"

"Absolutely," Olive said, smiling despite the sinking feeling in her stomach. The constant reminders about the parent-teacher conference night felt like a knife to the gut every time she heard them; because she had no parent to come and chat with her teachers, to tell her mom and dad how good of a student she was, whether she was exceptionally well-behaved, was kind to her fellow students… Last year she'd holed up in her room for a week when parent-teacher conferences had come around, too upset that she didn't _have_ her parents… This year, she was determined not to let it get to her. She couldn't fall to pieces every time she was reminded that she was alone.

Not technically alone: Understanding that Olive felt miserable about the approaching parent-teacher conferences, having lost his own mother as well, Stiles had suggested they have a movie-marathon to keep her mind off the conferences, and give Stiles a witness in the house when his gun-wielding father got home from talking to his teachers.

"How about a triple-feature?" Stiles suggested eagerly, grinning."_Three Days of the Condor_, _The Show_ and _The_ _Jerk_."

"_The Show_ is like nine and a half hours long," Olive said, glancing at Stiles as he shielded his eyes with his arm, chest rising and falling heavily.

"_The Jerk _is short."

"Next," Olive smiled.

"The three faces of Costner: _Bull Durham_, _Dances with Wolves_, _The_ _Postman_," Stiles suggested. "Tom Petty playing Tom Petty, that great big speech about: '_Once upon a time, there was a thing called mail_'. It'll make you laugh, it'll make you cry—and I know you like to snail-mail stuff."

"What about a Ruth Gordon film-festival?" Olive said excitedly, smiling. "_Harold and Maude_, _Rosemary's Baby_, and that great episode of _Taxi_."

"I've got it!" Stiles blurted, snapping his fingers and sitting up abruptly. "The worst film-festival _ever_: _Cool as Ice_, _Hudson Hawk_ and _Electric Boogaloo_."

Olive laughed. "I've never even heard of any of them. Hey, how about a horror film-festival. We could start off with something utterly ridiculous—_Final Destination III_; then we go on to _Silence of the Lambs_. And _then_ we could go full-on nightmares-for-months _The Exorcist_."

"There is something so deeply disturbing about your total unflinching adoration of all things horror," Stiles said to her, and Olive smiled, glancing covertly at Isaac as he used his t-shirt to wipe his face, his cheeks flushed, his dark-blonde hair curling beautifully, revealing a strip of skinny but subtly-toned tummy and the faintest dusting of a blonde happy-trail.

"And since we won't be able to sleep afterwards, we could watch _Psycho_ again, and _The Strangers_," Stiles continued, grinning, getting into the spirit of the horror-marathon. He glanced from Olive to Isaac, quirking an eyebrow. "Terrifying, because it's based on a true story—are you listening to me?"

"Yes, I am," Olive smiled, biting the inside of her cheek, eyes still on Isaac.

"Okay, what'd I just say?" Stiles asked.

"We should watch _Psycho_ and _The Strangers_ because we won't be able to sleep after watching _The Exorcist _and _Silence of the Lambs_, and _The Strangers_ is terrifying because it was a real-life event."

"That…is incredible, how do you do that?" Stiles asked, jaw hanging.

"I'm a woman; we multitask," Olive smiled softly.

"Hm," Stiles gave her a thoughtful look. "_Or_ we could watch _The Shining_, and there's that great episode of _Ghost Hunters_."

"I watched that one with the little girl who died in winter and her body was stored in the salt-cellar because the ground was frozen," Olive said, glancing at Stiles. "With the heat-sensor camera in the windmill tower. That was _creepy_."

"Yeah, they go to the hotel Stephen King wrote _The_ _Shining_ in," Stiles grinned. "Freaky doesn't begin to describe some of the things that happen."

"Hey, there's also that movie where a group of miners in South America get their path out of the caves blocked, and they all die in some horrific way, like getting scalped, what's it called, Scott?" Olive glanced at Scott.

"Okay, you're asking the guy who had to sleep with the lights on for three days after watching _The Bogeyman_, I wouldn't know!" Scott chuckled.

"What about _When a Stranger Calls_?" Olive asked, smirking subtly. "_Let the Right One In_? Please tell me you can handle _I Know What You Did Last Summer_."

"My masculinity is dwindling by the second in your eyes, isn't it?" Scott sighed.

"What about the new _Wolfman_?" Stiles gasped, grinning delightedly at Scott.

"With a few episodes of _Supernatural_?" Olive beamed.

"That one with the flesh apple-tree scarecrow creeped the hell out of me," Stiles shivered.

"There's a werewolf episode, too," Olive reminded him, and Stiles laughed as Scott sighed, glancing around tensely, as if afraid they were being overheard.

"That one ends sad," Stiles said quietly. He grinned. "What about the one at the lunatic asylum? Or those feral kids who live in the walls of the house?"

"I can't watch that one," Olive shuddered. She _hated_ that episode.

"What about the one where they pull pranks on each other?" Stiles grinned.

"_Ghost-Facers_!" Olive giggled, beaming, and Stiles grinned, cooing the theme-tune with her.

"How come I'm not invited to this movie-night?" Scott asked.

"You wanna watch _Ghost_ _Hunters_ and _Wolfman_ with us?" Olive chuckled.

"Well, no, not with you, I'm still recovering from watching _Texas Chainsaw Massacre_ with you," Scott shuddered, and Olive laughed.

"Watching it with me was fine," she reminded him with a chuckle. "It's what I did after that got your heart-rate going."

Isaac, glancing over at them curiously, asked interestedly, "What'd you do?" Scott and Stiles glanced at each other, before Stiles smirked at Olive.

"We finish watching the movie, right, and since it's late and my dad's not home, we're all too freaked out to split up or run the risk of our gas-tanks emptying on the drive home, so we decide to just crash in my room," Stiles said. "We all fall asleep—next thing I know, my door's being kicked open and someone's revving the engine of my dad's _chainsaw_."

"They whipped out of bed so fast," Olive giggled richly, grinning at Isaac, who was smiling. "There was screaming, cursing—"

"My dad filmed it on his cell-phone," Stiles said, his expression deadpan as Olive giggled; Scott had shivered, shaking his head.

"It _was_ his idea," Olive said, dusting off her hands and smiling, chuckling.

"Uh-huh, was it his idea for the prank you pulled on me at the station?" Stiles asked, giving her a sardonic looked. Isaac settled down on the grass, not close enough to be totally within the very tight inner-circle made up of those who _knew_, but close enough to have a conversation.

"What prank?" he asked, glancing from Stiles to Olive. Stiles sighed heavily, glancing at Olive.

"Okay, well, every year, my dad gets new recruits at the Sheriff's Station, right out of the police-academy," Stiles explained. "And every year, they have to take a tour of the station morgue. My dad's been friends with the county coroner since before I was born, so, since I was twelve, every year, he's helped me pull a prank on the new recruits." A smile started to spread across Isaac's face, his eyes twinkling.

"He takes off his clothes and climbs onto one of the empty beds in the morgue refrigerator," Scott said drily, shaking his head.

"Uh-huh. And when the new recruits get to the morgue, the coroner wheels me out and gets his scalpel to start cutting me up—only for me to wake up and start screaming," Stiles said, smirking, and Isaac laughed. "My record has been two recruits fainting, one screaming so high a _dog_ could hear, one passing out and cracking his head open, all in one go."

"So what was the prank your dad and Olive planned?" Isaac asked, a grin flickering across his face.

"So this summer, just after Olive moved to town, we'd spent enough time with her to know she has a sense of humour, right, and she loves horror-movies," Stiles said. "And she makes food miniatures, so she has _infinite_ patience. I tell her, yeah, the new recruits will be coming out of the police academy soon, and I explain about the prank I pull every year. So, you know, I do my usual; I take off my clothes, climb onto a tray, Scott locks me in the freezer and lies in wait under the coroner's desk with my clothes and a video-camera to record everyone's reactions; I'm lying on this freezing metal tray, completely naked, surrounded by dead, decomposing bodies in varying states of mutilation, and there's a _smell_ and I'm freezing my junk off, and my ADHD is kicking in, so my nerves are like…whatever, so I'm in the freezer for like an hour, and I can hear the coroner is talking to the recruits," Stiles said, and as he spoke, a grin started to glow on Isaac's face, his pretty blue eyes flicking to Olive.

Stiles sighed, shivering. "All of a sudden, I hear this voice right beside me say, '_It's cold in here, isn't it_?'" Isaac laughed, a rich, warm chuckle.

"I didn't think a guy could scream that high-pitched," Scott said drily.

"Yeah, I'm screaming my lungs out, and all of a sudden I'm being pulled out of the freezer, and my dad's whole frickin' _department_ is out in the morgue _laughing_ their asses off, Scott's got his video-camera recording everything, and my dad's crying with laughter, and they pull _Olive_ out of the spot next to me," Stiles said, giving Olive a look as she smiled at Isaac when he caught her eye, grinning.

"That's brilliant," he chuckled, grinning.

"You are a sick, sick individual," Stiles said, patting Olive's knee.

"What about you, Isaac, you into horror-movies?" Scott asked. Isaac cleared his throat, glancing at Olive.

"Well, I work in my dad's cemetery, digging graves, so horror movies would just get my imagination going into overtime," he said, smiling shyly.

"You work in a cemetery?" Olive said, surprised, and she sat up a little straighter, a grin spreading across her face.

"Okay, bad idea; you really shouldn't have told her that," Stiles sighed, shaking his head.

"Why not?" Isaac asked shyly, blushing a little as if he thought he'd done something embarrassing by admitting his after-school occupation.

"Because that's like the beginning of every Stephen King novel ever written! Dude…" Stiles shook his head.

"We so have to watch _Night of the Living Dead_ together," Olive said, smiling at Isaac.

"Zombies," Stiles shuddered.

"I haven't been able to watch horror-movies since I was eight years old, and my older-brother Camden let me stay up to watch _Friday the Thirteenth_ with him," Isaac said, clearing his throat softly, his eyes twinkling as he glanced at Olive.

"Brilliant movie," Olive grinned.

"It was…terrifying, but I sat through it, I didn't want Camden to think I was a wimp," Isaac said, with a subtle smile. "We just hadn't realised that while we'd been watching, our mom had snuck downstairs."

"Moms can be really cruel," Olive grinned; her own mother had jumped at her while Olive had been in the shower after watching _Psycho_ at a friend's thirteenth birthday-party.

"Especially that night," Isaac said, smiling warmly; Olive realised that Isaac hadn't mentioned his mother at all, the other day when they'd been working on their Chem. Lab report.

"We were watching it," Isaac continued, "and I was so relieved that the woman got into the boat, you know—"

"Oh, no…" Olive moaned softly, smiling, and Isaac started nodding.

"And my mom _screams_ at the top of her lungs, and Camden and I both scream like hell, and the deformed kid jumps out of the water and scares us again, seconds after, and we both screamed again, my heart was in my throat, I can still remember Camden bolting out of the room, he was so terrified!" Isaac chuckled, his smile warm and reminiscent.

"That's brilliant," Olive chuckled.

"That sounds like something you'd do, Olive," Scott said, glancing at her.

"I had to sleep with the light on for a week," Isaac said, smiling softly.

"Definitely something I'd do," Olive nodded.

"Yeah," Stiles said slowly, giving her a look. "Like… I don't know…attacking me in the shower with a knife after we watched _Psycho_."

"It was a _ladle_, not a knife," Olive said, shrugging, as Isaac laughed. "And in consideration of your dignity, I didn't get your dad to record _that_ on his phone…though your screaming still gives me a special kind of joy."

"I know, I can always tell you're thinking about it because you start giggling to yourself—like you're doing right now." Olive was indeed giggling to herself unabashedly; Scott and Stiles were both so easily terrified by classic 1960s horror movies, she could categorise different levels of psychological torture she inflicted on them after watching each movie in her collection. Stiles was definitely the best screamer; Scott got pouty and angry if she scared him, he was a bit of a spoilsport.

"Oh, just wait until Halloween," Olive sighed, giggling to herself.

"You're going to torture is, aren't you?" Stiles asked, with a heavy sigh.

"One word," Olive grinned, giggling. "_Poltergeist_."

"Crap," Stiles pouted, shivering. "That's after we go trick-or-treating, right? And the school dance?" Olive laughed.

"Yes, Stiles, I'll go trick-or-treating with you," she smiled warmly. She shook her head and smiled at Isaac, who gave her a sweet smile.

"Excellent, I was thinking, Scott's already got _his_ costume figured," Stiles smirked at Scott, who gave him a look. Olive laughed; she'd known other teen wolves who embraced their alter-egos on Halloween. "I thought, I could go as Batman, you know, and you could go as, I don't know, a _Playboy_ Bunny."

"Wow," Isaac chuckled, shaking his head. "Subtle, Stiles."

"I am not dressing up as a _Playboy_ Bunny," Olive laughed, cheeks warming.

"Why not? Come on! You're like my first _girl_ friend, alright, girls are supposed to dress slutty on Halloween, that's the rules. At least according to _Mean_ _Girls_."

"Wow. That you've even seen _Mean Girls_ says a lot about you," Scott laughed; Stiles shrugged unabashedly.

"Talk to me when your little wolf-whipped ass stops swooning every time Allison struts past in her tight little skinny-jeans," Stiles said archly.

"'Wolf-whipped'… That's cute," she chuckled. Stiles shrugged, winking playfully.

"Okay, so what're you gonna wear for Halloween then?"

"I was thinking _Catwoman_, actually," Olive smiled.

"Halle Berry, like it," Stiles grinned.

"God no!" Olive grimaced. "Stiles!"

"Julie Newmar," Isaac suggested, glancing at Olive, who beamed at him. How had he known she meant _the_ original Catwoman, the finest and the most flirtatious, curvaceous feline in TV history?

"How did you know?" she smiled.

"Best _Catwoman_ there ever was," Isaac smiled. "She has the classiest costume."

"Alright, but could you at least wear thigh-high boots?" Stiles asked; Olive laughed and reached out to slap him lightly upside the back of the head.

"You are such a _boy_," she said, shaking her head and chuckling.

"Well, whatever," Stiles said, shrugging, and Olive chuckled as she climbed off the ground, dusting the seat of her _Cyclones_-red gym shorts.

"Alright, gather round!" Coach Finstock called, and Olive smiled at Isaac as they meandered over to the coach. "Alright, Monday we're gonna start our new sport module; bring your swimsuits, a towel, goggles and nose-plugs if you need 'em. I don't care if you have self-esteem issues about your little scrawny asses in your _Sponge_-_Bob_ board-shorts, Greenberg, nothin' but a doctor's note will get you out of the pool, so all the rest of you, take some _Pepto_-_Bismol_ and grow a pair. We'll have our own amateur Olympics swim-meets every Friday, then you guys can goof off, play Chicken, watch the pretty cheerleaders bouncing around in their little bikinis, whatever…" Lydia Martin preened, smirking indulgently; Olive wondered how the rest of the girls in the class would handle having to get their hair wet.

"Hit the locker-rooms!" Coach called, and they started dawdling up the bleacher steps, across the soccer-field to the big gymnasium and the locker-rooms, enjoying the freedom to utilise the last-half of the period to have an extra-long lunch.

"Hey," Scott said softly, tugging on the back of Olive's t-shirt. Olive glanced at him, eyebrows raised inquisitively. "So listen…Allison and I were talking, maybe we could all hang out together, do something fun? Maybe this weekend?"

"All of us? You don't mean another lame group-date, do you?" Olive asked painfully.

"No!" Scott said quickly, eyes widening in alarm. "No, just…just hanging out. Me and Allison, you and Stiles…Jackson and Lydia."

"What?"

"It was Allison's idea," Scott shrugged. "I mean…she's friends with Lydia, and you're friends with me and Stiles…but you don't…really seem to be friends with her…"

"I guess," Olive said quietly. There were myriad psychological blocks that prevented her wanting to have anything to do with an Argent…but as best she could tell, Allison was actually a sweet girl. Olive had issues with her hair most days when she tried to pull off curls, she thought Allison's curling-iron had attacked her while she slept, but she was a nice girl.

"So I know you have gymnastics in the mornings, and you work in the afternoon on a Saturday, but um…maybe we could all do something Saturday night?" Scott asked.

"What about your game?" Olive asked.

"Well, we thought after the game," Scott said. "It won't go on too late. We could all go for pizza or something. Maybe see a movie."

"A movie sounds good," Olive smiled. "I'm…thinking about coming to your game, by the way."

"Oh, yeah?" Scott smiled. "Well, maybe you could sit with Allison and Lydia? They'll like you, I promise." Olive smiled.

"I guess I'll have to break out some of my more _fashionable_ wardrobe pieces," she said, glancing over her shoulder at Lydia, who was pristine, having walked two laps of the four needed to complete the mile, and claiming she had a cramp too bad to continue, with her fruity pink lip-gloss and shiny, styled hair.

"I'm sure whatever you wear will be fine," Isaac said softly. He gave her a smile that said a lot, a brief hint at the more mischievous side of him that was usually reserved for Stiles. "Isaac says you always look pretty." Olive glanced at Scott, surprised.

"He said that?" she asked softly. Scott nodded, smiling. Olive smiled to herself; Isaac had said she always looked pretty? That compliment was…highly flattering. And from Isaac!

"He's not the only one who notices," Scott smiled. "Allison thinks you're really pretty, too. And even Lydia grudgingly admitted that you always look pretty, no matter what you're wearing."

"Lydia did?" Olive asked curiously. "Wait…when were you all…talking about me?"

"That really terrible group-date, when we went bowling," Scott sighed.

"Well, this will be better, it's really just…hanging out," Olive said, with a sardonic smile at Scott, who chuckled drily.

"I guess. Maybe it'll be better with you and Stiles there," Scott said, sounding a little more enthusiastic. Olive smiled, glancing around.

"Wolves are always stronger in packs," she said softly, and Scott smiled awkwardly. "Stiles and I will be your pack-mates."

"Thanks," Scott chuckled softly.

"Just don't expect me to run around topless or anything," Olive said, glancing at Scott, who laughed.

"My girlfriend is a nationally-ranked archer, I wouldn't dare think of asking you to run around topless," he grinned, and Olive rolled her eyes, amused.

* * *

**A.N.**: Setting the stage for Olive's crush on Isaac, I'm not sure when I want them to have their first date/hang out. I'm getting ideas from _Gilmore Girls_; and I've got an idea about the parent-teacher conference night; and also I already have an entire outfit planned out for Olive to wear to a school dance, and I want that to be an important moment in her and Isaac's relationship, about his dad… But I don't know when I want that to be. Not a formal dance, like Homecoming, or the Winter Formal, just a dance… So please leave comments about what you think would work! Thank you.


	4. Chapter 4

**A.N.**: I'm sorry, I just really don't like Allison's mum. That _haircut_, the short-skirts-and-sweaters combo with tall boots, the _fur coat_? Talk about _tacky_. She's just not right. I don't like it. If anything, Allison's mother should be an older version of Allison, with similar style, and the person Allison got her personality from, because I know _I'm_ very much my mother. God help me.

So we don't really get much about why Stiles isn't talking to Scott after the mountain-lion shooting at school; or Allison's punishment of 'Biblical proportions' as her dad threatened. So I'm going to build on that.

Also, the Pinterest board I mentioned earlier has been renamed, hopefully to make it easier to find; it's now called 'Judgement of Actaeon – Olive'. Or search my username, _mellowUKgal_.

* * *

**The Judgement of Actaeon**

_04_

* * *

"—_if you could turn your phone on, right now, that'd be great, or else, I'll kill you. D'you understand me? I'm gonna kill you. And I'm too upset to come up with a witty description about how exactly I'm gonna kill you but I'm just gonna do it, okay? I'm gonna—grrrr! Goodbye!_"

"Sounds like he and Scott are having a snit," Sheriff Stilinksi said, with a sigh, as he shook his head and led the way to Stiles' bedroom. Olive had been over to the Stilinski house enough times now that both men felt comfortable with letting her wander up to Stiles' room, but as the Sheriff was on his way to the school for the conferences, he had wanted to stick his head into Stiles' room before he left.

Stiles jumped a mile when Sheriff Stilinski knocked on his son's door; glancing up from his desk, a wave of relief flooded Stiles' face.

"Please tell me I'm gonna hear good news at this parent-teacher thing tonight," Sheriff Stilinski asked, already grimacing as if he knew what he'd hear.

"Depends on how you define good news," Stiles winced, fiddling with something from his desk.

"I define it as you getting straight-As with no behavioural issues," Sheriff Stilinski said, and Stiles grimaced.

"You might wanna rethink that definition," Stiles said lightly; Olive made herself smaller as she stood against the doorframe; it was well-documented that Stiles had ADHD, popped Adderall like it was candy and the only time he'd ever sat still in his life was during his annual morgue prank.

"Enough said," the Sheriff sighed. "Olive, please keep my son out of too much trouble while I'm out."

"Yes, sir," Olive smiled gently, and the Sheriff sighed, gripped her shoulder and made his way downstairs. Stiles spun on his chair, tried to extricate himself from it, tripped, crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs and chair-legs, and Olive sighed, shaking her head and smiling as she stooped to help him disentangle himself, helping haul him off the floor.

"So what was your phone-message about?" she asked. "Do you wanna tell me what happened the other night?" Stiles darted to his bedroom-door, closing it carefully, and went to check on the road—specifically, his dad's cruiser parked out front—before tugging Olive over to the single-bed by her sleeve. Olive curled up cross-legged, hugging one of his pillows, and Stiles sighed heavily.

"Okay, so last night, it was passenger-seat-dinner night with my dad," Stiles said, rubbing his head frantically. "My dad got a call on his radio about a one-eighty-seven."

"Stiles, you know I don't understand cop-code."

"A murder."

"Oh! Hang on, is this the same one Derek mentioned? He sent me a text… It was the Alpha again."

"Yeah. So my dad drives us over to _Video_ _2C_," Stiles said, sighing. "And you'll never guess who was there sitting in the ambulance."

"Jackson and Lydia!" Olive gasped, sitting up and staring at Stiles. "You're kidding me. That's why Jackson looked so freaked out today?"

"Apparently," Stiles said, failing in his attempt not to smirk, "Jackson's the one who found the body."

"Wow… I hope he has nightmares for months," Olive smirked with satisfaction. She really didn't like Jackson Whittemore. Not even a little bit. He was rude and callous and the biggest egomaniac she'd ever met. He was deeply unpleasant. She didn't even like _Porsches_, so she didn't know why Jackson felt she had to be swept away that he drove one at the age of sixteen. He was a spoiled brat who'd never had anybody say 'No' to him in his life.

"Well, that's not all, because apparently there was a disturbance _inside_ the video-store," Stiles said, sighing heavily. "A '_mountain lion_' knocked over all the shelves and smashed through a plate-glass window, causing Lydia severe PTSD."

"Who was murdered?" Olive asked.

"The store-clerk," Stiles shrugged, sighing. "I'm waiting for my dad to tell me the guy's ID. Anyway, I went over to Lydia's house to check on her because she wasn't at school today—" Olive gave sweet Stiles a very warm smile. Unrequited love may be a bitch, but _he_ didn't bitch about it. Much. It was very sweet how…well, how sweet on Lydia he was. "I was just…worried about her. And now I'm freaking out."

"Why?" Olive asked, frowning. Stiles sighed, and passed her a cell-phone she knew wasn't his.

"You stole Lydia's cell-phone," she said, taking the phone from him. She frowned. "I'm surprised by how _not_-surprised I am by that."

"Yeah, well, whatever; just take a look at what's on there," Stiles sighed, looking glum as he curled up on the end of his bed. Pursing her lips thoughtfully, Olive grimaced as she tried to work Lydia's phone. Her own sleek black _HTC_ was a touch-screen, but Lydia's phone was funky. She unlocked the screen, and stared as a video started playing…

"_Oh_." She glanced up at Stiles.

"Yeah," Stiles sighed. "And I don't know what to do about it. I mean…obviously, Lydia saw something. Jackson probably did too, he was inside the store."

"Hang on," Olive murmured, reaching into her pocket for her own phone, and she hastily tapped a text to Derek, asking whether he'd made contact with Jackson since the altercation in the Beacon Hills High corridor Derek had told her about; apparently, he'd punctured Jackson's neck with his claws. Waiting for his reply, Olive stared at Lydia's phone. She had been kept away from Alphas by Moses, especially on a full-moon, for a reason, but she had seen them before. And this guy was _huge_. The Alphas were the most dangerous, most animalistic of all werewolves, their transformation was more full than any other kind of werewolf. Whoever this new Alpha was, they had had enough strength at the time when they were a mere Beta to kill _Laura_… She and Derek speculated—Olive had known Laura since birth, always receiving a card and a small gift on her birthday, especially since the fires—that either Laura had trusted whoever had killed her, or they'd surprised her. Whoever it was had gained their new strength, their new power and sheer size from _Laura_, they had taken that Alpha status from her.

"The only good news is, Lydia seems to have convinced herself it was a mountain-lion," Stiles sighed heavily.

"The mind can do incredible things," Olive said softly, staring at the screen. "If you see something your mind can't handle, it'll change it, manipulate your memories…so even you're not sure what you saw."

"Yeah," Stiles sighed. "My dad says when he's been called out to really bad stuff, the witnesses can either remember everything or nothing."

"Exactly," Olive said, sighing. Her phone flashed, and she opened the text.

"It's Derek… He talked to Jackson. He says Jackson didn't see anything," she said, and chuckled softly. "That's Derek's way of saying he intimidated Jackson into saying he didn't see anything."

"Hey, how come you didn't tell us you're friends with Derek?" Stiles asked, chin resting on his hand. Olive shrugged.

"I'm…not, really, I mean… Our families were really friendly. Every time I came up here to spend time with my grandpa, I spent time with the Hale kids. Derek was always older than me, but he and Laura were really good about playing with the younger kids, me," Olive sighed. She had known those children who had died in the fire. When she had come to Beacon Hills to seek out the Alpha, Laura had recognised her scent and come knocking on the door to catch up. She'd taken Olive shopping. They had both relished in spending time with someone from their childhood who had survived, who _knew_.

Just like that, a half-body found by joggers in the woods, Laura was gone. Olive had really liked her. She was kind. If Laura was cheese, Derek was definitely chalk; the two siblings could not have been more different. That's why they had stuck together; their strengths combined cancelled out some of their weaknesses. And in Derek's case, that was his heart.

"So does that mean you knew Derek's sister, Laura?" Stiles asked carefully, and Olive gave him a sad nod. "Hey… I'm sorry."

"I hadn't seen her in a long time," Olive said softly, glancing at Lydia's phone. "Since before the Hale fire."

"So how did she know it was you?"

"I have a very distinct scent," Olive chuckled sadly, and Stiles grinned. He sighed heavily.

"So what're we gonna do about that video?" he asked.

"I don't know. I mean…if you showed it to your dad, his tech team could just as easily claim you'd animated it on your computer," she said, frowning thoughtfully, and Stiles nodded, sighing. "It looks like something out of _Underworld_."

"Yeah, how is that possible, it's so accurate?" Stiles asked. "I rented like every werewolf movie there is, and I gotta say, _Underworld_'s the one that actually seems most realistic when it comes to the Alpha's transformation."

"You'd be surprised who's in the film-industry," Olive smiled, and Stiles laughed.

"No, seriously?" Olive shrugged.

"I think there couldn't be much harm in just deleting this video," she said, glancing at Lydia's phone.

"You think?"

"Well, Lydia's convinced herself it was a mountain-lion, and… Derek can definitely convince Jackson not to say anything if he did actually see something," Olive sighed. "And everyone knows there are no wolves in California, so who'd believe us if we said it was this big-ass wolf that busted the plate-glass window?"

"Apparently the store-clerk had his throat slashed," Stiles said thoughtfully. Olive glanced up, frowning.

"Were there no other injuries?" she asked curiously.

"No," Stiles said, frowning. "And I mean, that's weird, right? I mean, I've seen the coroner's photos of Laura Hale…sorry… And we all saw the bus-driver when he was being wheeled out to the ambulance, he was torn to ribbons."

"He's…getting more precise," Olive said softly, staring at Stiles.

"Who?"

"The Alpha. He's…gaining more control," Olive frowned. "He's not just tearing the victim apart, he's…becoming methodical."

"That's not normal, right?"

"For a werewolf… I mean, I don't know," Olive said. "I'm…not exactly an expert on werewolf psychology! But I do know that werewolves are predators. They have their own hunting techniques. And methodically slashing a person's throat, instead of going for it with his teeth…that's _human_."

"But the other murders?"

"The bus-driver, there was blood everywhere, right?" Olive said, and Stiles nodded slowly. "He didn't just go for the throat, he mutilated the victim."

"And there were bite-marks on Laura Hale's body," Stiles said softly. "You think the Alpha's getting more control?"

"I don't know, for some reason…from the way the murders are evolving, he's…he's becoming focused while he kills. He's being methodical," Olive licked her lips thoughtfully. "It's like…maybe the human part of him is starting to take back control while he's fully transformed."

"Where he wasn't before?" Stiles asked, and Olive nodded. She frowned.

"Do you…do you know if your dad has copies of those…those pictures of…of Laura?" she asked. "Here?"

"Yeah, he keeps a load of his stuff in his office," Stiles said, jumping off his bed, and Olive followed him downstairs. With the Sheriff gone, Stiles had absolutely no aversion to going through his dad's study; soon enough, he'd produced manila folders filled with paperwork on the Laura Hale murder. Derek's mug-shot had two large white spots, as if lasers had been pointed at the lens when the cop had taken the photo.

"Nice," Stiles said softly, a smile lingering on his lips.

"Yeah, you never see a werewolf on _America's_ _Most Wanted_," Olive chuckled. "Oh, here it is…" She opened the file slowly, biting her lip, her heartbeat stilling as she looked over the photographs. She had known Laura when she was pretty and smiling, full of life. This Laura in the photos wasn't the one she knew…so Olive could separate the photographs from the woman she had known. It wasn't her.

"This is…this is a purely animalistic kill," she said softly. "Any predator knows, the more injuries its prey has, the faster it'll slow, the easier it'll be to kill, to go for the throat. Blood is strength."

"'Blood is strength'," Stiles repeated softly, gazing at her. She shrugged slightly.

"And the second murder, he had the presence of mind to call Scott to help kill the bus-driver," Stiles said. "He was already getting more control?"

"I don't know. I don't think so, I mean, calling its pack is a basic instinct in wolves," Olive said, licking her lips thoughtfully. "Bringing Scott to help kill the driver was a rite of passage for Scott to cement his place in the Alpha's pack. Gathering a pack is also an instinct. The wolves' favourite prey is always too large to take down alone, that's why they work in packs."

"Like buffalo," Stiles said, glancing at her, and Olive remembered the _Frozen_ _Planet_ episode they had watched at her house, in the starkly beautiful snow, watching a pack of wolves take down a shaggy buffalo.

"Exactly," she said softly. "And with werewolves, being part of a pack means greater strength, even finer instincts, faster healing. Calling Scott to become part of his pack was almost as much a self-preservation instinct for the Alpha as it was a rite of passage for Scott."

"So I was right, it was an initiation," Stiles said, eyes wide, and Olive nodded. "Hey, how do you know all of this stuff? I mean, you're not a were-girl."

"No, I'm not," Olive chuckled. She cleared her throat, becoming more sombre. "My, uh…my stepdad and my little sister were, so…"

Stiles' eyes popped. After a second, digesting that, he asked curiously, "Was your stepdad part of a big pack?" Olive shook her head.

"We were his pack," she said softly.

"But if you and your mom weren't werewolves…"

"A 'pack' doesn't have to be that literal. It doesn't always have to be a pack of _werewolves_. There's only one thing, in all of the supernatural, that is more meaningful to an individual than its pack," Olive said gently, smiling sadly.

"Its mate," Stiles said softly.

"Exactly. And its offspring," Olive sighed. "Threaten either of those, you should already wish you were dead. So we were Moses' pack. He got his strength from us, and we were his anchor."

"Anchor?"

"Yeah, like…keeping control, changing at will, being totally in control even on a full-moon, it's something all werewolves are taught, if they have a smart Alpha," Olive said, glancing at Stiles. "And especially if they're werewolves by birth, they're taught before they reach adolescence how to control the shift."

"How?" Stiles asked curiously, eyes wide, and she knew he was getting the idea to help Scott learn how to control the shift.

"Moses told me about it a few times. You have to…tap into something meaningful," Olive said, sighing. "Something that keeps you _human_, keeps you grounded."

"And you and your sister and your mom were his anchor," Stiles said softly, and Olive nodded. "What was your sister's?"

"Her sense of humour," Olive said, smiling warmly. Stiles chuckled.

"You know, with everything I've seen of Derek, I wouldn't have guessed werewolves could _have_ a sense of humour," he said, and Olive laughed. "So that's how we help Scott stay in control on the full-moon? He just has to find something really meaningful to him, that keeps him human?"

"And then he can shift any time he wants. He'll still feel the pull of the moon when it's full, but he'll be able to go about as if he's just a normal teenager," Olive said. She sighed. "Which is good…especially with the Argents here."

"You don't like them much," Stiles observed.

"I'm just familiar with their methods, that's all," she said, with a distinctly cool edge to her voice.

"You don't even like Allison, not even a little bit?" Stiles asked.

"I don't know her. She's sweet, I guess…" she sighed. "Maybe she'll grow up not to be a Hunter. With those doe-eyes, I wouldn't expect she'd handle it… Did, uh…did Scott tell you we're all going out tomorrow night?"

"Yeah, to the movies," Stiles said drily, shaking his head. "You okay with that?"

"Not to sound too…_CW_, but if Scott's going to be spending all of his time with Allison, who spends most of her time with Lydia…eventually I'll have to start spending time with them too."

"And Jackson?"

"Maybe after a few tranquiliser darts."

"For him or you?"

"Me."

Stiles laughed incredulously. "You're the most mellow person I've ever met, Olive, why d'you need tranquiliser darts?"

"Because he _really_ makes me want to smack something," Olive said, shivering with distaste at the thought of Jackson. "Like his _Porsche_. With a crowbar."

"You know, I have the same fantasy," Stiles smiled.

"Come on, let's put all of this away," Olive sighed, glancing at the manila folders. Stiles helped her tuck the paperwork into folders, and into his dad's desk drawers. Leaving the study exactly as they had found it, they made their way to the kitchen for a drink each.

"Hey, Olive…" Stiles stood, leaning against the kitchen counter, eyeing his soda.

"Yeah, Stiles?" Stiles sighed heavily, glancing around the kitchen.

"What if…the next time my dad shows up at a murder-scene…the Alpha's still there?" Olive glanced at Stiles; he looked so sombre and so _worried_. In a small town like Beacon Hills, the Sheriff's job was never usually a very dangerous one, but with the 'animal' attacks, and considering they both knew what was really behind the murders, Sheriff Stilinski's job just got a lot more high-risk.

"I think…the Alpha might have…a plan. I don't know. Maybe the victims are all connected, it's just that your dad hasn't figured out how, yet. But I don't think the Alpha's going to show himself in front of a squad of police cruisers," Olive said, trying to comfort Stiles' worries. "So far every kill has been isolated." Stiles nodded. She truly didn't believe the Alpha would risk exposure in front of an entire police-department. Every kill so far had been in the middle of the night, the victim completely alone. She knew Stiles had every right to be worried; though Sheriff Stilinski kept a gun at his hip and one tucked at his ankle, neither would be an effective defence against the Alpha. It had taken a wolfsbane bullet to slow Derek down. She set her little glass of milk down, frowning thoughtfully. "But if you're worried…I might have an idea. It might take a little while, though."

"What?" Stiles asked, blinking quickly. "What idea?"

"Remember that rifle bullet that Kate Argent used on Derek?" Olive asked. Stiles shuddered, probably reliving the almost-trauma of having to nearly watch Olive axe someone's arm off like she was Gimli or "a really sexy backwoodswoman", as Stiles had dubbed her.

"Yeah," Stiles said slowly.

"Well, what if we switched your dad's ammo for his guns with wolfsbane ammo?" Olive proposed, and Stiles' eyes grew wider, thoughtful, a slow smile coming over his face, easing the strain his worry had caused.

"That would work," he said slowly. "Oh my god, that would work!"

"And as long as we match the ammo to the kind he already uses, he'll never have to know," Olive said. "The wolfsbane will only affect werewolves if he discharges a bullet for any reason."

"How are you gonna get nine-millimetre wolfsbane bullets?" Stiles asked, deflating, his shoulders slumping.

"Just…leave it to me," Olive smiled. She wasn't totally without connections; in fact, if Argent International had Hunter contacts all over the world, Olive had access to a number of people who had an even greater network of contacts. "You'll have to do the hard part, getting the bullets into his gun."

"Easy," Stiles waved a hand. "He locks his guns in the safe when he's home."

"Stiles-proofing the house?" Olive smirked playfully.

"Yeah, pretty much. I mean, he figures I'm not depressed enough to blow my brains out, but I think he still thinks I'm stupid enough to shoot myself by accident, so…" Stiles said, and Olive laughed.

"I'm sure your dad doesn't think you're stupid," she said, smiling.

"Lacking in common-sense is a form of stupidity," Stiles pointed out. "And after these conferences tonight, I'm sure my dad'll know all about my lack of common-sense."

"Stiles, you know you're a good guy," Olive smiled warmly, and Stiles gave her a small smile. "I'm sure your teachers will have lots of nice things to say about you."

"So are we gonna watch _Supernatural_ or what?" Stiles asked, clearing his throat.

"We are," Olive said, and they made their way upstairs to Stiles' bedroom. "Have you and your dad eaten yet?"

"No, we were gonna wait until he got home. Burgers," Stiles said. "You interested?"

Olive beamed. "Absolutely."

"No sneaking my dad curly-fries tonight, alright!"

"After the severe mental trauma of having to go and talk to your teachers, I think a little treat might take the edge off a little."

"That's true… Might butter him up with some curly-fries," Stiles said thoughtfully, nodding slowly. Olive smiled, chuckling, and plopped down on Stiles' bed, sitting cross-legged as she pulled her _Supernatural_ DVDs out of her backpack.

"Do we want to start with the Woman in White, the first appearance of _Meg_, ooh, _Bloody Mary_ was a good episode," Olive smiled.

"Not the one with the garbage-disposal. I had nightmares for months," Stiles said quickly.

"Okay, what about the clown episode? And the one with the hoodoo dolls," Olive smiled.

"And the one with the twisted nurse at the prison," Stiles said, nodding. "You gonna do homework while we watch?"

"Yeah, I have to get some of this History project reading out of the way," she sighed.

"Yeah, what're you doing yours on?" Stiles asked.

"Well, my grandpa was really into our family history, so I thought I'd pull up all his books on the first Beacon Hills Royeas," Olive smiled. "Do you know why Beacon Hills is called 'Beacon Hills'?"

"Your family had something to do with it?" Stiles asked, smiling.

"Well, my family used to own all the land that Beacon Hills is now located on," Olive said, tugging books out of her backpack. "The numerous Royeas each built a home on a surrounding hill, you know, to give each other some room to breathe—"

"Prevent cabin-fever," Stiles chuckled, and Olive smiled.

"Exactly. But since it was the 1850s and there were no fast methods of communication, the family relied on beacons to grab each other's attention in an emergency," Olive said, showing Stiles a drawing of the area back in 1852, with several rudimentary _Seven Brides for Seven Brothers_ farms, trapping-cabins and the locations of the five beacons.

"Huh," Stiles said softly, taking the book from her. "That's very…'Gondor calls for aid', Beacons of Minas Tirith cool." Olive chuckled.

"Yep. The beacons became so infamous that eventually the nickname for the area stuck," she said. "It was already a town before California even became a U.S. state."

"Really?" Stiles asked, eyebrows flicking up.

"Yeah, my ancestors moved here in the 1830s, before the U.S. had even gotten the land that is now California from Mexico in the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo in February 1848," Olive said, smiling, as she went over her notes.

"So is this what you're doing your project on?" Stiles asked.

"No," Olive said softly. "I, uh… I'm kind of…researching my dad."

"Your dad?" Stiles smiled, and Olive nodded, smiling.

"I figured…there must be some people who live here who used to know him," she said softly.

"That's cool," Stiles smiled. "Hey… Can I ask you kind of a personal question?"

"Be careful."

"If you're not a werewolf…what the hell actually are you?" Stiles asked, and Olive chuckled softly.

"I think it's probably best if you have just one supernatural beastie to worry about," she smiled softly.

"Come on, just tell me, you don't have to be embarrassed," Stiles said, grinning easily. "_Please_ tell me you're some kind of awesome succubus!" Olive burst out laughing.

"A succubus, really?" she chuckled. Stiles shrugged.

"If you need healing, or, you know, a boost to give you extra strength—"

"I'll pass, thank you," Olive chuckled.

"So are you saying you are?" Stiles grinned.

"I'm not a succubus, Stiles," she chuckled softly. Pulling a thoughtful face, she said, "I did go to an orgy with one once though."

"_What_?"

At the look of complete and unadulterated ecstasy on Stiles' face, she laughed. "That was a joke, Stiles."

"You are so cruel to me," Stiles sighed. "Okay, if you won't tell me what you are, will you tell me one thing?"

"Maybe."

"You like Isaac Lahey?" Olive glanced at Stiles, who was giving her a warm, thoughtful look.

"I like _looking_ at Isaac Lahey," she said, glancing down at her books. Stiles pulled a thoughtful face, turning to grab his Algebra 2 textbook, and they settled in to do homework and watch _Supernatural_. By six-thirty, darkness had completely fallen, the first sure signs that fall was fast approaching, the daylight hours dwindling fast. There were things about fall and deepest winter that Olive liked; but there were things she hated about it, and the short daylight hours were one of those things.

"It always makes me hungry when the sun starts to set earlier in the evening," she said, frowning, as Stiles opened a bag of _Fritos_ and offered her some.

"I hope Dad gets home soon, I'm starving," Stiles moaned.

"Mr Harris is probably reciting the _ode_ he's penned about you," Olive smirked playfully. Stiles grumbled, and flung himself off the end of his bed to grab his cell-phone on the bedside cabinet, tumbling loudly to the floor in the process.

"Stilinski's House of Ecstasy, how may I service you—" Olive burst out laughing, but when Stiles' face fell, going utterly pale, she frowned.

"What's wrong?" she asked quietly.

* * *

"Just go, okay, make sure your dad's alright," Olive said, her _Impala_ lurching to a stop outside the visitor's entrance to the E.R.

"Meet you back out here?" Stiles asked, still pale as death.

"Yeah," Olive nodded.

"What're you gonna do?" Stiles asked. "It might be a while."

"I'll go pick us all up some dinner," Olive said, and Stiles nodded, glancing over at the doors. "Stiles—go!" Gesturing to the illuminated entrance, she sighed, watching Stiles as he hurtled to the automatic doors. Pausing for a second as Stiles disappeared from view, Olive sighed, closing her eyes, and rested her head back.

Usually it was the other way around, the parent having a heart-attack when they got a call from the emergency-room about their kid having been in an accident. Stiles hadn't been able to focus on a single thing when Mrs McCall had phoned to say that Stiles' dad had been hurt in an incident in the school parking-lot with a mountain-lion. It could not have been clearer that Stiles Stilinski was absolutely devoted to his dad, and hearing the words 'dad', 'hurt' and 'hospital' in the same sentence had sent him into an ADHD fit: Olive had had to take the keys to his _Jeep_ off him, afraid he'd get into an accident while frantically trying to get to his dad. So she had driven him to the hospital.

Rubbing her face tiredly, Olive sighed, and glanced at the road; she checked her mirrors and pulled away from the doors, leaving the hospital parking-lot to seek out dinner from the Stilinski men's favourite burger drive-thru by the freeway. A big fan of home-cooked meals, especially French and foreign recipes, made with fresh, seasonal ingredients, Olive nevertheless loved a good burger, and she had found that the Stilinski men had long ago sussed out the best burger joint in Beacon Hills.

She picked up the Stilinskis' regular order, plus her own selections for medicinal purposes and her favourite cheeseburger with an onion ring, fried mushrooms, extra mayo and all the other trimmings, and as she pulled into the E.R. parking-lot, Stiles and his dad came out of the automatic doors. Instead of parking, she pulled up in front of them.

"Hey," Stiles' dad smiled tiredly, as Olive leaned over to open the passenger-side door.

"Are you alright?" Olive asked concernedly; she really did like Stiles' dad.

"Oh, I'm fine," the Sheriff smiled. "Just a little bruising, so can you tell your friend to stop fussing over me?" Olive smiled.

"Stiles, you're in back," she said, flipping the passenger-seat forward so Stiles could climb into the backseat. "What happened?"

Sheriff Stilinski groaned as he slipped into the passenger seat, bearing a pharmacists' paper-bag. "There was a mountain-lion at the school campus. 'Course, everybody starts screaming, freaking out, I ran to try and catch the thing, some guy pulled out of his parking-spot without looking, bumped me to the ground."

"What happened to the mountain-lion?" Olive asked, as she pulled away from the E.R. again.

"Chris Argent shot it," the Sheriff said, and Olive glanced away from the road at him, wide-eyed.

"He _shot_ it? In the middle of a parking-lot full of frantic people, he pulled out a _gun_?"

"Well, in his defence, he beat me to it," the Sheriff sighed. He sighed again. "We've got a pretty good idea this was the rogue mountain-lion that killed those two people." Olive glanced in her rear-view mirror; Stiles was sitting, quiet and…sullen. He was working his jaw, and his eyes were hard and glossy, as if he was trying not to show how upset he was.

"Are you really okay?" Olive asked gently, glancing at the Sheriff.

"I'm fine," he chuckled softly, sighing. "Just a bruise; the medics gave me some pain-killers to have with food… Do I smell a steak sandwich?"

"With extra chilli-relish," Olive smiled. "I've got extra curly-fries, I got Stiles the berry slush he likes, and I threw in some personal favourites; onion-rings, chilli-cheese nachos and some soft-serve sundaes for dessert."

"Thanks for bringing Stiles to the hospital," the Sheriff said, glancing at Olive with a kind, tired smile. Olive smiled sadly; she didn't like hospitals very much.

"You're welcome," she said softly. She glanced in the rear-view mirror again, checking on Stiles. "Stiles, do you want to have some of those fries before they get cold?"

Stiles cleared his throat softly. "I'll reheat them when we get home." Olive glanced at Sheriff Stilinski, who sighed.

"He and Scott had an argument in the E.R.," he said, half-amused. Olive glanced back at Stiles again.

"Reheated fries suck," she said mildly, and Stiles started to fidget.

"They do suck," he mumbled, and dived for one of the little bags of curly-fries. Olive smiled, and the Sheriff chuckled, shaking his head; sometimes, Stiles was so easy to manage.

Olive didn't figure out what had happened between Stiles and Scott until after Stiles had fussed over his dad so much that the Sheriff had gone to bed after taking some of his pain-medication for being body-checked by a silver four-door _Chevy_—while a white _Chevy_ that had almost turned Allison Argent into road-markings.

Stiles was mad at Scott because, while he had been playing the hero sweeping Allison off her feet out of danger despite her dad wielding a _Glock_ against the defenceless mountain-lion, Stiles' dad had been hurt. He had ended up in the emergency-room—Mrs McCall being a nurse, and a very good friend of the Sheriff's, she had forced him to the hospital to check there were no fractures or internal damage.

"And you know the only thing he could even say to me in the E.R.?" Stiles fumed, working his jaw as he finished the last of his curly-fry-and-hot-fudge sundae.

"It begins with an 'A'."

"Yeah. His mom grounded him, so he won't be able to go on our lame group-hang tomorrow after the game," Stiles scowled, fiddling with his lacrosse-stick, sighing heavily. "Allison's grounded too, so I'll have to stay home and drill screws into my toes just in case Lydia still expects us to hang out with her and Jackson." Olive chuckled.

"Maybe you and your dad could do something," she said. "He's not working tomorrow-night, right?"

"No," Stiles sighed softly. "You know, that sounds pretty good, actually… Ever since this…ever since Scott got bit…I've been so focused on trying to help him, me and my dad haven't…haven't really had much time to spend talking…like we used to." Stiles scoffed softly, shaking his head. "I've been spending so much time researching and…doing all of the homework _Scott_ should be doing to learn more about getting his new lunar man-period."

Olive choked on a last slurp of her watermelon slush drink. "Thank you!" she choked, sneezing, and set her drink down. "I almost just shot slushie out of my nose!" She burst out laughing. _Lunar man-period_. She sneezed again, giggling. Smiling at Stiles, she noticed his expression, and she sighed.

"He _has_…got his priorities a little bit out of whack," she agreed carefully.

"Yeah, skipping an entire day of school when he's practically failing three classes, and just _ignoring_ some very real threats that _I_ can't deal with," Stiles groused, and Olive could understand his frustration and annoyance, and sympathised with it; she also knew what it felt like to have a brand-new significant-other, and especially her first boyfriend ever, but Stiles was right; in his situation, Scott couldn't afford to shut himself off from the rest of the world just to spend a day with his girlfriend. And he shouldn't take Stiles for granted, given everything Stiles was doing for him. While Stiles spent hours poring over the internet and going through books in the public-library, searching up everything he could on werewolf law, figuring out ways to help Scott during the full-moon, Scott did absolutely _nothing_.

It was very ungrateful of Scott to treat Stiles the way he was, not to mention selfish of him to skip school without a word to anyone of his destination, when he'd even be back.

It was the kind of thing Olive never had to worry about, telling someone where she was going when she left the house, when she'd be back and who she'd be with: but Olive had met Mrs McCall several times, she liked the kind, humorous woman, and Olive didn't think she deserved Scott vanishing without a trace.

"If I'd pulled crap like that when I was still living with my parents, I'd have been grounded until menopause," she said.

"Yeah. Well, at least we can talk about this stuff," Stiles said, gesturing to Lydia's phone. "So… What do you think? Delete it? Scott can't be bothered to be bothered about this…"

"Yeah, delete it," Olive sighed, sucking her watermelon slush drink. Stiles sighed and deleted the file, tossing the phone onto his bedside-cabinet. Considering her slush drink, she said thoughtfully, "I might consider tater-tots next time, maybe a half-portion of onion-rings and half of tater-tots."

"Get the tater-tots on a good day in the cafeteria," Stiles said, glancing at her, and sighed. "Or, hey, at the snack-shack at the game tomorrow. Are you still coming to watch the game?"

"Yeah, I think I will," Olive smiled.

"Alright, cool. Can you look sexy when you cheer me on?" Olive chuckled.

"I'll email my friend Lucia; she's _great_ at making up dirty cheers," she smirked, giggling. "I could add a little jiggle to my cheer-routine for you."

"You mean for Isaac _Lahey_," Stiles teased.

"I was trying to give your ego a little boost, thinking I'd be there just for you," she smiled, chewing on her straw. "But yes, I will be eyeballing the _fine_ Mr Lahey _all_ night long."

"Well, it's not like I didn't know that already, I mean, you spent all of P.E. and Chem. Lab mad-dogging him. And it'd be a pretty bad waste of time coming to see me because I have yet to actually _play_ a game. On the field. With the team," Stiles sighed. Olive smiled.

"You'll get to play," she said encouragingly. "Eventually."

"When the zombie-apocalypse is over and I'm one of a handful of guys with all his remaining limbs?" Stiles said, and Olive laughed. She sighed, glancing at the clock, and fiddled with her drink.

"I guess I should get going," she said quietly, glancing at the clock again.

"Yeah, I'll walk you out," Stiles nodded. Gathering her things up, she helped Stiles take their empty dessert-trays downstairs, dumping them in the kitchen garbage, before she tugged her keys out of her backpack and made her way out of the Stilinski house, to her shining black _Impala_ parked out front.

As she drove off, her phone buzzed with a text; aware that driving while being on the phone was illegal, and knowing there were traffic-cameras even in the small town of Beacon Hills, Olive sucked on her watermelon slush, pulled over to the side of the road and checked her phone; an unknown caller had sent her a message. Opening it, she read: _Allison's grounded; we're going to the game together tomorrow_.

_Sorry, who is this?_ Olive texted back, frowning.

Her phone started to ring, and she answered the call. "Hello?"

"_It's Lydia Martin, who else would it be!_" a voice that was getting more familiar by the day said. Olive raised her eyebrows.

"Lydia…hello," she said, surprised. "Um…how did you get my number?"

"_Scott gave it to Allison_," Lydia said. "_Listen, we were all supposed to hang out; since Scott and Allison are both grounded until like senior-year, Jackson and I are going out alone. I hope you weren't too excited about our group-hang_."

"Uh… No, that's fine," Olive said, relief flooding her. "I'll tell Stiles."

"_Who_?"

"Scott's best-friend," Olive said, shaking her head slightly as she sipped her drink.

"_Right. You're going to the game tomorrow, right_?" Lydia chirped.

"Yeah, I'm going to watch Stiles," Olive said.

"_Excellent. We'll sit together_," Lydia said happily. "_Please try and look hot_."

"Anything for you, Lydia," Olive said, laughing to herself as she sipped her drink. With a soft chuckle, Lydia hung up. Olive sat, a little stunned, for a moment, before laughing to herself all the way home.

* * *

**A.N.**: Please review!


	5. Chapter 5

**A.N.**: The first Lacrosse game Olive goes to watch: And a little something extra. I also wanted to actually have Allison and Scott punished the way Allison's dad threatened, for them ditching school (on the same day as parent-teacher conferences, the idiots!) and continue the animosity from Stiles towards Scott that's hinted at in the beginning of 'Heart Monitor', over what happened to Sheriff Stilinski (I really like him, he seems like a really nice guy).

* * *

**The Judgement of Actaeon**

_05_

* * *

"Is Lacrosse always this violent?" Olive asked.

"Mm, usually," Lydia said unconcernedly, smiling blandly as she watched the field, specifically Jackson, just as she had been all game. Olive raised her eyebrows, glancing over the players huddled on the field, watching one of their teammates limp off with the help of the coach's aid.

"Hey, they're putting Isaac in," Olive said softly, sitting up a little straighter; the number _14_ was etched into her brain now as Isaac's number.

"_Who_?"

"Isaac Lahey," Olive said, smiling to herself, as she applauded with the rest of the Home crowd, encouraging Isaac as he came off the bench, tugging his helmet on.

"He asked me out once," Lydia said idly, gazing at the field. "First day of freshman-year. I told him to ask again when the bike he rode to school has an engine, not a chain."

"I'm sure he appreciated such a polite rejection," Olive said drily, clapping as the Cyclones got the ball. Besides the complex and biased Code of Points for gymnastics, Olive was a novice at sporting rules; but she got the general gist of the sport. At least, she knew to clap when the rest of the _Cyclones_ stands did. She had been to a few games at her old school: football was the favourite, but she had had friends on the swim-team and the baseball team, so she had gone to watch them play. It was a fact that nobody really paid much attention to the actual game, past keeping track of which team had the ball and who had scored. It was more about the atmosphere, the community feeling of everyone coming together to watch their kids play, enjoying being sociable, sharing a tray of nachos.

And if Lydia was an unabashed boy-watcher, Olive was at present closeted about taking pure delight from watching the boys run around in their shiny shorts, emerging from their helmets pink-cheeked. At least until Isaac had gone onto the field.

"Well, honey, if you want him," Lydia said, glancing at number _14_ as he passed to Scott. "You can have him; there won't be _any_ competition to get him." Olive smiled softly to herself, even if Lydia did scoff with amusement at what she perceived to be Olive's poor taste in men; Olive was glad there would be no competition.

"Why not?" she asked curiously. "He's one of the prettiest guys in the sophomore class. And as far as I can tell, definitely one of the sweetest."

"He works in a _cemetery_," Lydia said, giving her a perplexed look.

"At least he works for what he wants," Olive said quietly, watching Isaac as Jackson sniped a pass from Danny intended for Isaac. "He doesn't just expect things and take them."

"What're you talking about?" Lydia asked, glancing at her, wide-eyed.

"Nothing," Olive smiled subtly. "So let me ask you something, with all your girlfriends, why call _me_ to come watch the game with?"

"Mm, boredom," Lydia said, glancing at the field. "Plus, you're the only enigma at this school I've not investigated."

"An enigma," Olive chuckled.

"That car you drive; reading Shakespeare in the cafeteria; new star of the gymnastics team; eye-bonking Isaac Lahey…all contradictions to each other," Lydia said, glancing at her, and Olive tweaked an eyebrow at the phrase 'eye-bonking Isaac'. "And I saw your cute little food-miniature keychain. Isn't there some kind of law against having cute key-chains if you drive a muscle-car?"

"I haven't heard of any laws like that. I know there's no law saying you have to be an idiot if you're pretty," Olive countered, smiling. "Or at least act like one." She glanced at Lydia, who arched a neatly-plucked and filled eyebrow.

"You're more perceptive than I'd thought," she said. "Always have your nose tucked in a book, in a little hidey-hole out in the woods, hanging out with…what's his name? That weird kid who's friends with Scott."

"Stiles," Olive said, smiling as she glanced at the _Cyclones_ team bench, where Stiles had been sitting all game, watching his teammates enjoying being able to play. Stiles hadn't had any opportunity out on the field, and Olive wondered just how many games the Sheriff had come to in the hopes of seeing his son play.

"Exactly," Lydia said smoothly. She gasped as Isaac took a particularly brutal hit out on the field from two of the opposing team's players. When he didn't get up off the ground immediately, Olive sat with bated breath, watching… On his hands and knees, she could see his legs shaking…she could hear his panting grunts of pain. He raised a gloved hand to his side, his ribs… She had seen him with black eyes and a split lip; sometimes she'd seen bruises healing on his arms. Every time he said they had come from lacrosse, but neither Stiles nor Scott ever took hits like that.

"Is he okay?" she half-whispered, not even listening to Lydia's response as she blocked out all other sound but Isaac's voice, every pain-filled wheeze. As she watched, Scott and Danny approached Isaac, asking concernedly whether he was okay, whether he needed the doctor. Then she heard another voice; this one angry, _callous_; a man in the Home stands was shouting at Isaac to get up. The man had been shouting since Isaac took the field, and not once had Olive heard him say anything encouraging. He had shouted at Isaac, in a familiar way that made her think he was Isaac's father; he said awful things that made the people sitting around him exchange bemused looks and frown, awkward.

Scott helped Isaac get to his feet, but Olive could see how shaky he was on them; perhaps he'd taken a hit straight to the ribs, because his pants came with pain-drenched wheezes, and he kept a gloved hand clamped to them as Danny handed him his stick, clapping him encouragingly on the shoulder; people in the stands weren't the only ones feeling awkward about the man's angry, insulting shouts; though Olive didn't get the impression from school that Isaac was particularly popular by any stretch of the imagination, everyone on the field gave him encouraging pats on the back or called something to him, and gradually applause started up for him as he took his place, toughing out the pain instead of forcing another teammate to pick up the slack while he went back to the bench. But Olive could tell he was struggling; he put up a good fight, but he wasn't as fast, and after a little while, the coach sat him on the bench.

From where she was sitting, Olive could see Isaac's profile; his cheeks were flushed, his hair curling beautifully from sweat, his eyes were sparkling in the lights, and he looked like he was trying _not_ to show how much pain he was in.

When the game was won, and the boys started filing towards the locker-rooms, the crowds started to disperse; Olive sat, finishing her drink, and watched Lydia socialise with her other friends. She stilled, frowning, and focused on the pair of men standing just beside the bleachers, half-hidden by the rails—"_embarrassment_ out there, Isaac!"

The man everyone had been awkward about having in the stands had grabbed Isaac Lahey by the upper-arm, his grip tight, and Olive saw Isaac, his chin getting lower and lower as he tucked it to his chest, his cheeks flushing, trying not to notice that people were watching his father yell at him. Isaac was taller than his father, much slenderer, and Olive had never seen Isaac anyone so timid or humiliated.

"Lahey! Locker-room, now!" Coach Finstock called, gesturing the way eccentrically; with an angry grimace, Mr Lahey flung Isaac away from him; Isaac stumbled, caught himself, and jogged off after Coach Finstock, red in the face.

As Lydia sauntered off, waving over her shoulder to Olive with a smile, with her other girlfriends, Olive dawdled towards the locker-rooms, to wait for the boys to shower and change. She wanted to catch up with Stiles, and tell Scott he'd played well.

She felt the tension between the two when Stiles left the locker-room ahead of Scott: communication wasn't always verbal, and the impression she was getting from Stiles was that it would take a lot for Scott to get back in his good graces. He hadn't spoken a word to Scott all through the game, and from the number of texts Olive had received from Stiles today while she had gymnastics and her afternoon-shift at the bookstore, she was sure he hadn't spoken to Scott all day either.

Scott was angry: that Allison was grounded and hadn't been there to see him get the game-ball as MVP; that his Mom _was_ there, to make sure he got in her car after the game and enforced his grounding instead of letting him slip out to celebrate with some of the guys on the team. Personally Olive thought a week's grounding for skipping an entire day at school was a mild punishment; she'd gotten two weeks for missing one math class. Or perhaps it was that she had ditched said class to go shopping.

"Hey," Stiles said, tugging his sweatshirt on and fiddling with the hood as he lugged his sports bag out of the locker-room.

"Good game," Olive smiled.

"Thanks. Well, I've been perfecting sitting up on my own since I was six months old, so…had to come in handy sometime, right?" Stiles said, with a sardonic smile, and Olive chuckled. As Scott walked past, guided by his mother, Stiles ignored him.

"How long's this going to go on for?" Olive inquired, glancing from Stiles to Scott, raising an eyebrow.

"What?"

"You being mad at your best-friend," Olive said. Stiles sighed, setting his jaw.

"Until he gets his head out of his ass and realises what a total jerk he's being," he said.

"Hm," Olive frowned. "Stiles…you do know Scott's a teenage boy?"

"Yeah."

"Some guys take their entire lives to get their heads out of their asses and stop being jerks," Olive said, giving him a mildly reproving look. "You're gonna wait your entire life for Scott to apologise for being a tool?"

"If I have to," Stiles said, giving her a look. Olive rolled her eyes, fighting a smile; _that_ was total bull. "So, my dad and I are gonna hang out tonight, so…"

"Well, I, uh… Kind of have plans to go shopping, anyway," Olive said, fiddling with her car-keys in the pocket of her sapphire-blue leather jacket.

"I thought you do your grocery-shopping on Wednesday-nights," Stiles frowned. Olive smiled.

"No, I mean girly shopping," she said, "at the mall."

"Oh, right. Oh, yeah! It's Midnight Madness tonight," Stiles nodded.

"Exactly… I have to pick up some things for a friend's birthday, so…" Olive said, licking her lips.

"Well, okay, we're still meeting up at Jim's tomorrow morning, right?" Stiles asked.

"Absolutely," Olive smiled.

"What are we on now?" Stiles asked, frowning thoughtfully.

"Well, I've had blueberry, lemon-meringue, cherry, pecan and apple," Olive recounted, frowning thoughtfully: every time they went to Jim's Diner, with its _fifty_ different homemade-pie flavours, she and Stiles had made it their mission to try every single one.

"Well, I'm gonna have banoffee," Stiles said, grinning.

"I'm torn between peach pie or strawberry and rhubarb," Olive said thoughtfully, already hungry for her weekly breakfast at Jim's with Stiles. Since Scott was grounded, he wouldn't be in attendance, but Stiles seemed determined not to let his friend's seeming indifference disrupt the rest of his routines.

"I'll call you?" Stiles said, smiling, and Olive nodded.

"I'll be there," she promised. She smiled Sheriff Stilinski as he waved from the double-doors at the end of the hall, where parents and friends were waiting for the boys to emerge.

"I'd better go," Stiles said, glancing at his dad.

"Hey, um…did you see Isaac inside?" Olive asked.

"Yeah, the team doctor's taking a look at him," Stiles said, glancing at Olive. "Those guys hit him really hard; there's already really bad bruising."

"Is he okay?" Olive asked concernedly.

"I don't know, I mean, I guess… He kept playing," Stiles shrugged, looking a little thoughtful. "Maybe he was just trying to tough out the pain because of his dad."

"Did you hear him yelling?" Olive asked quietly, and Stiles nodded, quiet.

"Yeah, I heard him," he said solemnly. "Shouting abuse at Isaac."

"Does he do that every game?" Olive asked.

"He doesn't seem to come to all of them," Stiles said. "But it's memorable when he does." Memorable in a _bad_ way, Olive knew. "He has a real Charlie Billingsley thing going on."

"Is he from that football movie?" Olive asked, and Stiles nodded. "Alright, well… I'm just gonna say hi to Isaac. You and your dad have fun."

"See you tomorrow," Stiles smiled, and made his way over to his dad. Olive sighed, watching the door to the locker-room, but Isaac didn't appear; ten minutes later, she meandered over to her car, throwing herself into the driver's seat, and pulled out of the parking-lot.

Midnight Madness occurred the first Saturday of every month at the big, shiny Beacon Hills mall; at one point, it had been second only to the Pleasanton's Stoneridge Mall in terms of size. Stoneridge had been the biggest mall in America until the Great Mall had been built. And for a town the size of Beacon Hills, the mall was a blessing. Now, every first Saturday, the mall would stay open until midnight, for people like Olive who couldn't get there during the week or before closing-hours because of full schedules. Armed with her shopping-list, printed coupons and vouchers for different stores and her discount-cards, she parked and made her way into the mall.

* * *

An anomaly among teenage girly-girls, Olive loved shopping by herself. She could _tolerate_ shopping with girlfriends, but she found she never actually picked up anything she wanted, or needed, and spent most of the time finding different sizes for her friends in the dressing-rooms, and usually came out of it having eaten nothing but a few cinnamon-sugar pretzel-bites. She preferred dawdling around stores looking at pretty things, taking her time to ask the girl at the makeup-counters which shades and finishes worked best for her deep olive skin-tone, looking through the racks and finding one exquisite piece that fit her beautifully, rather than trying on a hundred different things and grabbing five to buy that she'd never actually wear.

As a young teenager, she had followed the trends like every other girl; now she took inspiration from her favourite celebrity style-icons and movie heroines, and put her own vintage, laidback, edgy spin on things. She preferred subtle _edge_ to her outfits, like smoky bronze eyeshadow, and long skirts, tailored tops and _details_—buttons, trims, embellishments—as well as rich fabrics, like the turquoise-sapphire leather jacket she was wearing; or the pearl-and-seed-bead _Faberge_-embellished trousers she had in her closet; or her battered pale-brown cropped leather jacket lined with sumptuous fuchsia zinnia-printed silk; the sapphire-turquoise velvet trousers she longed to wear; or the _Juicy_ _Couture_ trench-coat she'd bought on sale with the pink lining she liked to show off by turning the sleeves up toward the elbows; the flapper-inspired black chiffon top with ebony beaded straps and an embroidered neckline, fully-embellished with ropes of beads from neckline to the dropped-waist hemline. Those were just a few of the pieces she had collected, and in the past she had been daring and on-trend embracing her originality.

She knew what she liked, and was unusually keen-eyed for a girl her age for noticing that, yes, it looked fabulous on the hanger, and everyone else at school was wearing them, but it just was _not_ the right cut or colour for her. She rejected rustling taffeta, meringue-skirts, strapless tops, micro-mini dresses, and if she didn't feel comfortable in something, she didn't buy it; she always tried things on before buying them, and preferred to by something stunning and very well-made that would last, especially if it had a unique pattern or beautiful embellishments, even if it was expensive, rather than buying a tonne of substandard-quality, flimsy things that every other girl was wearing.

She disdained girls who caked on kohl and fake-tanner. She didn't need the fake-tan, with her skin, and she preferred _MAC_'s 'Teddy' brown eyeliner to harsh black; _NAKED2_ and rose-gold eyeshadow; mixing bronze liquid with crème blush to create a natural glow that complemented her skin; or keeping her face neutral and even, with a warm red lipstick; neatly-filed clear-gloss fingernails; and except for when she wore her lace pearl-beaded top, she kept her hair loose and unadorned, showing her natural curls she'd come to realise were beautiful, and envied by others, and which she rarely applied anything to but _M_oroccan-oil to tame them in humidity.

She loved homemade lip-scrubs and used _Caswell Massey_ rosewater toner and put moisturising cream on her face morning and night because that's what her mother had taught her. She preferred saving for fine gold jewellery rather than buying costume pieces stuck by the checkout line in clothing-stores; she didn't have her ears pierced; she had a bottle of _Viktor & Rolf_'s 'Flowerbomb' perfume because her mother had worn it, and every time she inhaled a breath of that scent, she was reminded of her. But she didn't wear it; she placed the little grenade-shaped bottle with its rose-silver details on her dressing-table, an ornament. She disliked powders and always applied lip-liner before using a brush to apply lipstick. Her makeup-style icon was Diane Kruger, and Olive sometimes resented not having flawless fair skin to pull off her makeup looks.

She always took an eco-conscious linen bag with her to use instead of plastic shopping-bags, and never wore her earphones or talked on the phone when she approached the counter because she thought it was rude when she saw other people doing it.

Olive spent almost all of her free time outside of school wearing workout gear or a leotard, and despite having been on the dating-scene since she was fourteen, she had never been naked or even topless in front of a boy; and being a little bustier than the usual stick-thin teenaged girl dieting away most of her appeal, she felt uncomfortable about buying a string triangle-bikini to wear during swimming for P.E., especially in a class full of fifty-odd guys. But she also was very proud that she did intense training for her gymnastics that put the boys in said P.E. class to shame—as Danny had said the other day, gymnastics was hard-core, and Olive did have a rock-hard core of abs to prove it—so she had a flat tummy, and didn't have to be anxious about it being seen; but she was a tankini girl.

She stopped in the _Bravissimo_ store, full of gorgeous bras for _real_ chest-sizes, and found the swimwear section, delighting that there was a sale on, due to it being the beginning of October, halfway between summer and the exotic winter vacations people had planned. She found a beautiful turquoise tankini top with a vibrant floral pattern and candy-strip trim, with underwire and a concealed bra-closure at the back, and a pair of matching briefs.

Having promised her friend a particular shade of _Essie_ polish for her birthday in a little assortment of pretty things—Olive always put together a little parcel, rather than spending $20 on a DVD or a CD her friends would put on their iPods and never touch again, and especially now with the cost of mailing the presents—she went to the beauty-supply store and physically had to put up blinders so she couldn't see the window-display as she hurried past the _Aldo_ boutique next-door. Picking up the _Essie_ shade her friend had asked for, 'All Tied Up', Olive also hesitated before indulging in several shades for herself: remembering the date, and its significance, to her if to nobody else, she took care picked out the most perfect lilac, 'St Lucia Lilac', 'Peach Daiquiri' flamingo-pink coral, and a last bottle, 'Jam 'N Jelly', caught her eye because it was the most sumptuous ruby-red and it exactly matched _Cyclones_-red. She picked up two buffers and a packet of plain nail-files for herself, as well as a box of _Sally Hansen_ 'Kitty-Kitty' nail-wraps, because they looked fun…and Ruby would have loved to try them. She picked up a tub of _Vaseline_ lip-balm and a small bag of empty plastic twist-lid pots.

She picked up her favourite 'Sweet Lemon' shower-gel from _The Body Shop_ to replace the bottle she'd finished last month, wandered around the _MAC_ and _NARS_ counters in _Nordstrom's_, meandered around _Victoria's_ _Secret_, looked through the tops and jackets in _Macy's_, and had to back out of _Williams-Sonoma_ before she bankrupted herself buying culinary equipment that she would never use. She did find a baby-blue heather t-shirt with cut-outs at the shoulders, and considering her usual self-imposed uniform of jeans and a t-shirt didn't give much by way of variation, she bought it; it was super-soft, the colour like forget-me-nots, and, with the tongue-lashing from Lydia about her fashionably-substandard wardrobe, Olive thought it would probably be a good segue into her more fashionable attire.

_One step at a time_, she thought. She knew the clothes she had worn hadn't contributed anything to how she'd acted in the last year; she had partied a lot, but that had been because of where she was, psychologically, emotionally. She had wanted to feel _good_, to forget that she felt so _desolated_ and heartbroken for a reason. But now she knew the way she dressed had no effect on whether she attracted the same kind of attention she once had. People in Beacon Hills didn't know what had happened to her family…so if they stared at her, it would be because she was wearing a beautiful jacket, or was wearing red lipstick, or she had stuck the landing on a Shaposhnikova.

Wandering along with a fresh lemonade, she saw it. _Sephora_. Her doom, her downfall, the bane of financially-independent girls everywhere: with a big old sign in the window, that dreaded word that sent wallets wincing and squealing with anticipated pain; _Sale_.

_Just a little look_, she told herself. Twenty minutes later she walked out with a bag full of her haul: several _Lipstick Queen_, _Bite Beauty_ and _Benefit Cosmetics_ products, and a bottle of _The Cool Fix_; she had bought herself a stick of _Lancôme's_ 'Rouge in Love' lipstick and _Benefit Cosmetics_ 'Sun Beam' highlighter, 'POREfessional' and 'Erase Paste'.

It was a good thing she had been saving her pay-cheques from the bookstore.

And that she had self-control; because she could have spent a _lot_ more money.

Lips made up with _Bite Beauty_'s 'Starfruit' sheer balm, a delicious balm-stick she had at home but hadn't worn in a while, she sipped her lemonade and, feeling guilty about her splurge, soothed by the handful of free samples she had been given, she meandered downstairs toward the food-court.

Frowning, she did a double-take, because she was sure she had just seen a familiar lanky dark-blonde in the arcade; she took several steps back and peered into the arcade, smiling to herself. She had wanted to talk to Isaac after the game; having waited, and him not making an appearance, she had guessed the team-doctor had had to pay special attention to the injury he'd sustained on the field. If nothing else, she had wanted to catch Isaac and tell him what a good game she'd thought he'd played, especially soldiering through the pain after that hit.

She crept up to Isaac, who was freshly-showered, his hair curling, wearing jeans and a plain black sweatshirt, unassumingly handsome, and he had his back to her, frowning sadly as he played one of the video-games, and gently pinched his waist, making him jump and squirm away, half-smiling from being tickled.

"Hello," she smiled warmly.

"Hi," Isaac said softly, smiling so sweetly.

"I would've thought you'd be recuperating at home," Olive smiled. "After that _hit_…"

"Yeah," Isaac said softly, glancing at the screen, his high-cheekbones illuminated by the flashing colours. "No, I just…didn't want to go home just yet." Remembering his father at the game, Olive nodded, sipping her lemonade.

"Yeah, I understand that," she said quietly. She'd never had anybody treat her the way Isaac's dad had yelled abuse at him all throughout the game, but then, she didn't actually have anyone waiting for her at home at all. And it was lonely. "I didn't get to see you right after the game."

"Yeah, the, uh…the doctor wanted to take a look at me," Isaac said, glancing at her, biting his lip.

"Everything okay?" Olive asked, glancing over Isaac, who nodded.

"Yeah, it's just a bruise," Isaac said, clearing his throat softly. He glanced over her shopping-bags. "Big shopping night?"

"I did a bad," Olive said, dropping her head shamefully as she indicated the _Sephora_ bag. Isaac chuckled softly. "I was _lured_ in by pretty packaging and that word…_Sale_. And free samples." She bit her knuckle in fake anguish, and Isaac gave her a brilliant smile, amusement making his eyes twinkle. "Anyway, I had to pick up some things for a friend's birthday-present, and a suit for P.E… Are you here by yourself?"

Isaac nodded, clearing his throat. "I, um… I told my dad I was going to hang out with the guys on the team. Jackson's friend's having a party."

"I heard that," Olive nodded, sipping her drink, glancing at Isaac. "Why didn't you go?" She saw Isaac's expression, and realised why; he hadn't been invited. "Ah… Well, I was saved a truly awful _group-hang_ tonight with Jackson and Lydia." Isaac glanced at her, eyebrows raised. "Scott and Allison are both grounded; they got caught out skipping school yesterday."

"On the same day as parent-teacher conferences?" Isaac said, and Olive smiled at his tone.

"Yeah, exactly," she rolled her eyes. "I think it was Allison's birthday or something, so… But even so, we were all supposed to go and do something tonight. Me, Stiles, Jackson and Lydia, Allison and Scott… I can't say I'm heartbroken over the plans being cancelled."

"What were you guys going to do?" Isaac asked.

"I don't know, really. A movie, probably," she sighed.

"How come you didn't go to the party?" Isaac asked; Olive gave him a look, and he smiled.

"Anyway… What are you up to?" Olive asked, sighing softly as she glanced at the video-game Isaac had been playing.

"Just…keeping myself from going home," Isaac said, sighing sadly. Olive leaned up against the console beside his, and sighed. She didn't want to go home either. "You look tired."

"I am," Olive murmured, peeking at Isaac; her eyes had slid closed. Isaac smiled.

"I'm not keeping you here, am I?"

"If I go home, I'll go straight to sleep," Olive murmured, smiling as she squeezed her eyes shut and opened them wide, trying to wake herself up. "I'll get up at five o'clock and then I'll finish my homework and my orders and I'll have made June's birthday-card and lip-scrub and then I'll have nothing to do all day." Isaac smiled.

"Don't you have work tomorrow?" he asked, glancing at her.

"No," Olive sighed. "Sunday's my one day off a week. From everything. I'll go for a run when I get up, and meet Stiles for breakfast at Jim's Diner, then I'll probably just veg out."

"You like Jim's?" Isaac asked, and Olive nodded, beaming.

"I used to go there a lot with my grandpa, when I was a kid," she beamed reminiscently. "No matter what my mother said, he'd always just let me have pie if that's all I wanted." Isaac grinned. "You like it there?"

"Their BLTs are amazing," Isaac said, smiling subtly.

"I like those too," Olive smiled. "Or their take on the McMuffin, in a toasted biscuit with red onion and bacon and a fried egg with the centre just runny enough… I could eat one of those for lunch any day."

"With a milkshake," Isaac smiled.

"You're making me hungry now," Olive said, giggling softly. She sighed; she hadn't had dinner at home. She'd had gymnastics, made herself a hot lunch—chicken, avocado and lime soup—gone to work, come home to shower and change and get to the school for the game, and come straight here.

"Well, I…that's why I came here," Isaac said, gesturing the arcade. "They do great pizzas here."

"Really? In an arcade?" Olive asked, surprised, glancing around. The warm and dark atmosphere wherever the flashing lights didn't intrude, there were leather booths over by a counter she hadn't noticed, and the kitchen must be fully-concealed, because she only saw a soda-fountain and what looked like milkshake machines and blenders full of colourful slush.

"It's the best pizza in town," Isaac smiled. "At least I think so. Matt and I used to come here a lot when we were kids."

"Matt?" Olive asked.

"Oh, he's a guy on the lacrosse team I used to be friends with in elementary-school," Isaac said.

"Not now?"

"I don't know, he just…stopped coming over when we were like nine," Isaac said, frowning slightly.

"I had a friend like that," Olive said thoughtfully. "Probably didn't help that I repeated to Skyler that my mother had said Skyler's mom needed a stick surgically removed from her ass… _Oops_." Isaac chuckled as she grimaced guiltily. She glanced at Isaac. "Are you hungry?"

"Um… Yeah," Isaac said, looking very shy, and Olive nodded, grabbing her purse before approaching the counter; not sure what Isaac liked on his she paid for two slices of meat-feast pizza; Isaac flushed and accepted the enormous pizza slice with a mumbled "Thank you" and they slipped into a small booth to eat. Gazing at Isaac as he ate carefully, licking his lips and _not_ eating with his mouth open, or with his elbows on the table—Olive hated that in other people—she wondered…

"Hey, Isaac?" she said softly, licking her lips, and Isaac glanced up, eyes inquisitive. "Would you maybe want to hang out some time? You know, outside of school?"

Isaac cleared his throat, glancing shyly at her. "Would…would you?"

"Yeah," Olive smiled. Seizing on an idea, she beamed, "We could watch _Willy Wonka_. And we'd have to do it properly; candy and ice-cream and everything."

"Like on _Gilmore Girls_," Isaac said softly, and Olive glanced up, eyebrows raised.

"You've watched _Gilmore_ _Girls_?" she smirked teasingly.

"I like Lorelai," Isaac said, blushing, and Olive beamed.

"I like her too," she said softly. "My mother was a huge Lorelai fan." She sighed, feeling her features falling as her chest crumpled, and she sipped her lemonade morosely. She blurted, "I'm thinking of getting a cat." Isaac laughed, so surprised by her sad sigh.

"A cat? Why?" he asked, a curious smile illuminating his features. Olive sighed, her face feeling heavy, her eyes tired.

"Because…nobody will miss me if I don't make it home one day," she said sadly, her voice thick. She leaned her elbow on the table, propping her head against her fist, her eyes burning. She shouldn't have started thinking about Ruby. She'd been okay in _Sephora_, distracted by pretty packaging, beautiful colours and that word, 'Sale'. But in the beauty-supply store she had felt like someone was carving her chest in two from the inside-out, using a dull butter-knife. Even knowing before she'd even get to Beacon Hills that her life wouldn't be the same without her old friends, Olive had known that in time she would carve a life for herself in this new town, but she couldn't shake that desolating feeling of being completely and utterly alone. Because she was; she had no family. She had been bouncing around family-friends' houses, hating herself for being an imposition, until finally she had decided to move from Arizona all the way to Beacon Hills, by herself, to live in her family's hunting-cabin, because it was hers, and hers alone. She could rebuild here, but only to an extent. There was no bringing her family back. But she couldn't bear the thought that if something happened to her, nobody would _notice_, let alone care. So she had been thinking about getting a pet, someone who would greet her at the door, wait for her to get home, cuddle on the sofa with her watching TV; if she got a dog, she could take it on runs with her.

"I'm sure that's not true," Isaac said softly, and Olive glanced up.

She cleared her throat, blinking the tears away. "Do you have any pets?"

"My family used to have a dog," Isaac said, clearing his throat softly and sitting up a little straighter.

"What was its name?"

"Elsa," Isaac said, smiling softly. "But she died, ages ago." He smiled sweetly. "She used to steal the Bolognese off the stove if my mom left the kitchen."

"Was the stove still on?" Olive asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Oh, yeah," Isaac nodded. "My mom reckons Elsa must have burned her mouth, but I bet she enjoyed it. There wasn't a trace left in the pan."

"What breed was Elsa?"

"A boxer," Isaac smiled warmly, and Olive beamed.

"I've always loved boxer-dogs," she said softly, smiling. "And Rottweiler's."

"Really?" Isaac asked curiously. "Aren't they dangerous?"

"Animals are only as vicious as we make them," Olive said sadly, thinking of the werewolves she had known…and lost. Teenaged friends who'd come afoul of uneducated Hunters who hadn't kept to any code. Friends who'd died protecting themselves. Trying to protect themselves… She cleared her throat. "My best-friend in Arizona has a Rottweiler. Gwen; she's the _silliest_ animal you've ever seen." She laughed, shaking her head. Give Gwen a tummy-rub and she was your eternal love-slave. Whenever Olive had lolled on the sofa with Tara, watching TV and doing homework, Gwen would clamber up onto the sofa, and rest her head and her paw on Olive's stomach, gazing up at her, as if she could sense the lack of physical comfort Olive got anywhere else.

"Why would you want a cat, not a dog?" Isaac asked, glancing up at her as he picked apart the last bite of his crust.

"The cabin isn't very…well, it's quite big, I suppose, for just me," she sighed. "But I couldn't have a big dog. And I don't…really like little dogs. Except for French bulldogs." She sighed. "Maybe I should just get some more potted plants. At least if I die, they do too; it'll be like a suicide pact." Isaac chuckled, shaking his head as he sipped the lemonade she had offered him.

"My brother gave me a pet rock for my birthday once," he said, handing the lemonade back, and Olive laughed.

"Really?"

"Yeah. He'd forgotten it was my birthday until my Mom brought out my presents, and he gets up, goes out in the yard, comes back with a rock and says, 'Here, its name is Hidalgo, look after it'," Isaac smiled, and Olive laughed.

"A pet rock named Hidalgo," she rolled her eyes, amused.

"What's your lamest pet?"

"Uh…the African violet I grew from a single leaf in fifth-grade."

"Did you name it?"

"Yes. Kilgore," Olive smiled.

"You were reading Kurt Vonnegut in fifth-grade?" Isaac said, and Olive glanced up, surprised. Nobody had ever gotten the reference before.

"You _know_ Kilgore Trout?" she asked.

"I read my brother's copy of _Slaughterhouse-Five _when I was thirteen and it blew me away. I didn't stop till I'd read all Vonnegut's stuff," Isaac said, smiling warmly.

"Which is your favourite?" Olive asked curiously. She tended to judge people by their bookcases, and favourite novels said a lot about a person.

"_Mother Night_," Isaac smiled.

"About the American spy—"

"—who pretends to be a Nazi," Isaac nodded. "'_You are who you pretend to be_—'"

"'—s_o be careful who you pretend to be_'," Olive nodded, smiling softly. "I can't believe you're a Vonnegut fan! That's made up a little for you not having ever seen _Willy Wonka_!"

"I can't believe _you_ like Vonnegut," Isaac said, glancing at her.

"Me?"

Isaac shrugged slightly, glancing at her shyly. "You're not how I expected you to be."

Sipping her lemonade, Olive smiled warmly. "Whoever is?"

Finishing their pizza slices—Olive had to agree with Isaac that it was some of the best pizza she'd had since moving to Beacon Hills, though she didn't tend to eat much of it—the air-hockey table freed up, and Olive smiled as Isaac proposed playing one game before Olive went home; she was tired, and fed, and now she just wanted to curl up in bed, watching a movie in the background while she wrote some letters to her friends in Arizona. So she agreed to one game, and then she was going to go home.

Olive had excellent reflexes, but Isaac seemed to like air-hockey, and she found herself laughing and teasing Isaac as she played. Isaac had a _very_ sweet smile, but she wished he'd come out of his shell a little bit more; he was almost painfully shy.

He was also very sweet: after Olive had offered him a ride home, he wheeled his bike beside him, and walked Olive to her car to make sure nothing happened to her between the mall doors and her car, before thanking her sincerely for the pizza, and climbing onto his bike and pedalling off.

It was nice to come home, still smiling from spending time with someone who could potentially become a new friend. She had a feeling Isaac, of everyone at school, could use a friend. And she chuckled as she made her way up the porch steps, noticing a rock on the ground, reminded of Hidalgo the pet-rock.

Reminded of her thoughts on buying more plants, Olive made a plan to go to the garden-nursery after breakfast at Jim's; she wanted to put together some plant-pots for the porch and the steps, to make things a little more colourful.

Her house was silent, empty; she had the lamp on her desk and on the sideboard in the dining-area on timers, so it was at least light inside when she unlocked the front-door; she set her shopping-bags down on her little antique settee, before kicking her shoes off under the bottom of the stairs and putting her slippers on, going to check her mailbox, which she had seen had its lid up as if it couldn't close properly; she found the monthly Beacon Hills magazine, a slim _Amazon_ packet, a letter and a parcel, both from friends in Arizona, and two magazines; _American_ _Miniaturist _and _LOVE Magazine_. Locking up the front-door, she bolted it and meandered upstairs with her mail and her shopping.

Clicking on her flat-screen HD television, she smiled as _Lost_ _Girl_ came on, a _marathon_, and she sent a text to Stiles, whose reply was an ecstatic—_I know! Taking notes to suss out what u r_!

_Good luck!_

* * *

**A.N.**: Please review! I'm writing the 'Night School' episode right now; at least, the way I wish some no-nonsense someone would have dealt with Allison during the 'Night School' episode!


	6. Chapter 6

**A.N.**: Okay, even though I only had one (1!) review for chapter five, I'm being very magnanimous and offering you up a treat in the form of an update.

* * *

**The Judgement of Actaeon**

_06_

* * *

Sunday passed just the way Olive had wanted it to: she went for an extra-long run through the woods early in the morning, before meeting Stiles at Jim's Diner for breakfast; she had a slice of strawberry and rhubarb pie, and it was _delicious_. She had her eyes on a slice of Portuguese custard-tart for next time.

When she had returned home and showered, she spent a little while on her clay miniatures, making up several orders as well as a pair of dainty miniature macaron stud-earrings, in the same shade of pink as the _Essie_ 'All Tied Up' polish she had bought for her friend June; the earrings were also part of June's birthday-gift, as was the soft handkerchief trimmed with vintage Irish crochet she had picked out in her favourite new boutique downtown, where the owner embroidered the handkerchiefs with her little sewing-machine, with an initial and a ring of leaves and several flowers in the colours of Olive's choice. Her friend June was a girly-girl who loved vintage like Olive; but it was Olive who always had a handkerchief—embroidered by her maternal-grandmother, who had died when Olive was three—in case any of her girlfriends got upset and burst into tears. The handkerchief her grandmother had embroidered for her was the _magic_ handkerchief; it never failed. So with Olive living in Beacon Hills now, she had decided that with her girlfriends' birthdays coming up, she would send each of them a customised handkerchief. So that at least she was there in spirit, if not in body.

Olive picked up the handkerchief on her way downtown, where she stopped in the craft-supply store to pick up some narrow lilac ribbon to fasten around the handkerchief, and picked up some more clay and looked at the vast array of scrapbooking papers and equipment; her mother had been hugely into scrapbooking, and Olive loved sending handmade cards. She also always included a recipe-card whenever she gave gifts, recipes specific to the tastes of whoever was receiving the gift; the cards were no bigger than index-cards in size, but they were made of scrapbooking paper and embellishments, the recipe printed using her vintage pink _Royal_ typewriter.

The nursery was beautiful, full of lush green, growing things, and Olive regretted not having asked Stiles to give her a lift, because of the space in the back of his _Jeep_, but one of the employees gave her several cardboard trays to put her purchases in; she also bought pots in several different sizes. Looking at the seed-packets, she had been very curious about growing her own vegetables; she loved the farmer's market on a Saturday, but rarely had the opportunity to go and enjoy it, with gymnastics and work. It wasn't the right season for starting a vegetable-patch, though; so she took her plants and pots and watering-can and went home.

With her stereo on, she sat on the porch steps with a bag of earth, several earthenware pots, the trays of plants, and an old newspaper with three upturned pots drying: she had painted one a warm, dusky lilac, another a very pretty forget-me-not blue, and the last a vibrant fuchsia.

By the time she had finished, the painted pots had dried, and she walked a few paces from her cabin to look at the porch, and the steps: she had bought herself pink geraniums, marigolds, yellow star-centred fuchsia zinnias, and dark-purple and pale-blue violets: an assortment of succulents were arranged in a shallow terracotta basin, in front of a wild white rose plant in a terracotta pot, clustered by the front-door with a pot of yellow Celosia, and another of cooking-lavender. She had also bought herself enough plants to make herself a full herb-garden, with parsley and basil and chives, though she kept it potted; and she had bought a small chocolate-mint as well as the regular kind, and the thyme and rosemary smelled beautiful. She had bought bulbs for tulips and pretty golden-trumpeted little yellow daffodils, purple crocuses, and seeds for cornflowers, cosmos flowers, ranunculus, sunflowers and anemones, and a dahlia plant, chocolate-cosmos—_hello, flowers that smelled like chocolate_!—a peace-lily and a small bay-tree for the leaves, to use in stews and casseroles.

Olive had a habit of saving her money and not spending any of it for a long time, and then going out in one or two days and spending a _lot_ of it. But she subsidised the monthly allowance her mother had set aside for her in the event of her premature death with working at the bookshop—she had worked a month's worth of full nine-to-five six-days-a-week shifts before school started—and selling her food miniatures and handmade cards on _Etsy_. She had also saved up a lot of money the last two years, working, and babysitting a lot, also working at the snack-shack at the sports-park in the spring, and helping her coach with the youngest gymnastics set of five-year-olds during their classes.

Clustered on the edges of the steps, either side of the front-door, a beautiful agapanthus potted up beside her rocking-chair, the cabin looked instantly more colourful and warm, inviting. The plants were just sheltered enough from any wind, while she could easily move them out onto the ground in gentle rain to get some water, and at the same, tuck them all on the porch, flush against the wall, when the weather got bad. Having seen triangular raised-beds at the nursery, Olive liked the idea of having two of them tucked up either side of the porch-steps. Just her alone, she didn't need to grow many plants, and she could grow whatever she liked and what she would use, even use the porch railing as a trellis to guide climbing plants.

She smiled, proud and pleased, and wandered back to the porch, to tuck the half-used second bag of earth into the tiny shed flush against the back of the cabin, out of sight, and tidied up the porch, putting the painted pots out of harm's way until she was ready to plant them.

Turning her stereo off, she instead turned on her television, and watched _Roseanne_ while preparing her dinner—Rachel Khoo's _boeuf bourguignon_, which would have enough meat left over for a gorgeous sandwich for lunch tomorrow, and the gravy would be a wonderful base for a rich soup. Letting it simmer on the stove, Olive sat down to chat with Stiles and several of her friends from Arizona online, uploading photographs of her new plants and her latest polymer-clay creations to her little blog and updating her _Etsy_ account with her new products. She wasn't the most technologically-gifted girl, but her friend Max had set up her little blog for her and taught her how to update and put in graphics, and started her _Etsy_ account for her, linking it to her blog.

Sunday was her veg-out day: she got to do a lot of what she didn't let herself do during the rest of the week, because lounging on the sofa when she should have been doing Algebra 2 equations or studying the Periodic Table wasn't the way to graduate high-school. And she was the only coach and mentor she had when it came to pushing herself to do homework, and do it properly; there was nobody to help her, and nobody to remind her that she had to do it. If she forgot an assignment, it was on her own head, the same as for studying for tests.

Playing around with a blood-orange cane for her miniatures, she tasted her _boeuf bourguignon_, before getting out everything she needed to make a pot of her homemade honey brown-sugar lip scrub. As part of June's birthday-present, the lip-scrub—which she had consistently made for her friends on special-occasions in various flavours since she was thirteen—was to go with the _Essie_ nail-polish, buffer, file and the little _macaron_ earrings she had made, in a pretty little lilac mesh makeup-bag, with the embroidered handkerchief wrapped around it, tied with a lilac ribbon. She had June's birthday-card all made, with a long letter consisting several pages of stationery customised with little doodles and stickers, as well as the recipe-card—with an obsession with the Coppola movie _Marie Antoinette_, June was one of the easiest girls to cater for; a recipe-card for choux pastry, and another for crème patissiere and icing, made up the instructions for a DIY_ Ladurée_ 'Religieuse'; she added a tiny clay _Ladurée_ Fraise-Rhubarbe cupcake from the collection she had finished making the other week, and the last thing she added to the birthday-card before sealing it, with a Beacon Hills postcard and a tiny sheet of sweet cupcake stickers, was postcard-sized, a piece of palest-pink scrapbook paper printed using her typewriter, with a little soft rose-pink heart stamped in the corner; it said, '_You is Kind, You is Smart, You is Important_'.

June's favourite book recently was _The Help_, and she identified with Mae-Mobley, the emotionally-neglected little baby of the book; her own parents were highly-motivated and expected more out of June, but never encouraged her. June would appreciate her own magic-hanky, because she had so frequently needed to borrow Olive's. When Olive had moved, June had given her a small plaque she had made from a square of plywood, painted iridescent-pearl, with the same phrase as the postcard stamped in a faded black vintage typeface, a small sunflower painted in the corner using vibrant _O.P.I._ nail-polishes.

She sat at the table eating her dinner; did her chores around the house; did her laundry and got her P.E. bag packed with an ancient Minnie Mouse beach-towel, her new swimsuit and shampoo, conditioner and her comb, moisturiser and _Vaseline_ body-cream; she always hated how chlorine dried out her skin. She put June's present and card in a bubble-wrapped envelope after addressing it, putting it in her backpack to mail at the post-office on the way to school; and got most of her lunch ready, letting the leftover meat from the _boeuf bourguignon_ cool before she put it in a sandwich made from fresh bread she had let rise while she did her porch-side gardening, freshly-baked by the time she'd had her dinner.

Methodical about organisation, and unused to a weekly timetable instead of daily schedule, Olive had to look over her timetable to check which classes she had on Monday, and she put the corresponding composition-notebooks in her backpack (not spiral notebooks; she hated how the bottom of the pages always clumped together and tore because of the end of the metal spiral; and after she had used up all of the pages in each composition-notebook, she loved to customise and decorate the front-cover, storing them by subject and year).

She found each of her homework-assignments that were due in for tomorrow's classes, as well as the paper for History that was due in at the office; and she finished her reading for Tuesday's classes, writing a short summary on what she had read in her Econ book, her History textbook, and the chapter in the _Aeneid_. She also rewrote the explanation in her Algebra 2 textbook for tomorrow's chapter, in her own words, so she could understand it better before she had to take notes during Ms Smith's lecture on the subject. The subject of math got her thinking about Isaac, and she got up from her desk, to frown at the wall of built-in bookcases with adjustable shelves she had filled with books, DVDs, photographs, figurines, bottles of nail-polish, cards and trinkets, and several of her six-drawer acrylic boxes, each containing the different varieties of finished polymer-clay food miniatures she had made; another two larger tubs contained scrapbooking embellishments and the concealed cupboards beneath now held the largest tubs filled with polymer clay and other equipment she needed for her miniatures, and tubs of stickers, papers, stamps and inks.

Everything was neatly and aesthetically arranged; and alphabetically, in the case of the DVDs; books were arranged by colour and then by author. She went to the shelf dedicated to her school notebooks; the last two years' worth of composition-notebooks arranged by year and subject, in sequential order, each numbered, with a photograph inside of her teacher; a colourful lever-arch box separated each subject, in which she had organised all of her old essays, tests and reports.

Wondering how she'd become such a nerd, that she kept all of this stuff amongst her prized possessions, she found her Geometry composition-notebooks. Putting _Nick Nite_ on, she read through her notebooks, thinking about Isaac's request to work with him on his geometry, while _The Cosby Show_ and _Roseanne_ played on the television, and it got inkier and cooler outside, and she had to draw the curtains she had forced herself to learn how to sew with blackout fabric lining them, weights in the hem. Finishing the last notebook, she frowned, remembering the upcoming Chemistry test Mr Harris had threatened them all with a week tomorrow, and again remembering the look on Isaac's face when he'd said he _couldn't _get bad grades, she again went to her desk, pulling open the one small, neatly-organised drawer, in which she found the school directory; every student's home-address and contact info. If they gave it; Olive was in there, and she went through the _L_s until she came to _Lahey_.

Pausing for a second, she tapped the number onto her touch-screen _HTC_ phone and pressed the little green phone; waiting…and waiting. When someone answered, they were grumpy.

"_Lahey_."

"Um… Mr Lahey?" she asked. "This is Olive Royea, I'm…sort of a friend of Isaac's. May I speak to him?"

"_He's busy_," was the reply, and Olive gaped, incredulous, as the man hung up.

"_Wow_," she said to herself, stunned. She sighed softly, biting her lip. People said first impressions were lasting; Mr Lahey had _not_ made a very good impression at all.

Not long after the rather rude almost-phone-call with Isaac's father, Olive tidied up her desk, packaged several orders she had to take to the post-office, cleaned the kitchen, and the bathroom, and meandered upstairs with her sketchbook, passing out before ten-thirty after doing some sketches for new food-miniatures jewellery designs.

* * *

"_Oh my _god," Olive gasped, wincing sympathetically, as Isaac approached their lockers. She reached out, and noticed how Isaac stifled a shiver, as if trying not to recoil, his eyes on her hand. She dropped her hand, but bit her lip, staring concernedly at Isaac; he had a split lip and a black eye that had spread to his cheekbone, which had a cut that was or had just stopped bleeding, and both looked very fresh. "What _happened_?" she asked softly, horrified. When she had seen him on Saturday-night, he had been pink-cheeked from playing hard for an hour and a half, his skin beautifully clear, and devoid of bruises. Now he was pale, tired, the bruise glowing darkly, the split-lip painfully red.

"Just, um…lacrosse," Isaac said, clearing his throat softly, glancing at her shyly. Olive glanced into his eyes, not believing him for a second. But he looked so spooked, she let it lie.

"Have you put something on it?" she asked, and Isaac shook his head. Biting the inside of her cheek, Olive turned to her locker, opening a medium-sized sunflower-yellow plastic compartmentalised box with a lift-out tray: it was her 'school' First Aid kit; she had one in her car, too, with similar contents, but this one didn't have the mini bottle of _Jack Daniels_ or the wind-up phone-charger. What it did have was a packet of tissues; a flimsy sandwich-bag of dried dates; a _Clif_ bar; salted pretzels; a box of _Band-Aids_; a pad; a compact tampon; a mini packet of mint _Lifesavers_; several safety-pins; a handful of dark-brown hair-ties; bobby-pins; eye-drops; the back of an earring; a button; wet-wipes; a condom; a tea-light candle; a sample of concealer; a _Tootsie Roll_; a comb; a bottle of clear nail-polish for hang-nails and runs in tights; a $5 note for emergencies; _Saltine_ crackers; an orange-juice carton; spare _Converse_-laces; a wind-up flashlight; a tiny sewing-kit; an _EOS_ balm-ball, a bottle of sunscreen; baby-wipes; and a little matchbook; packets of _Motrin_; a stick of _Extra_ peppermint gum; an old memory-stick; _Post-It_ tabs and a whole load of mechanical pencils and her favourite black-capped orange _Biros_: there was also a tube of antiseptic cream.

"Here," she said softly, breaking the foil seal on the tube with the pointed cap and indicating Isaac to come closer; she squeezed a little blob of cream onto her finger, and carefully blended it in over the cut on his cheek. "Hopefully it won't get infected."

"Thanks," Isaac mumbled, gazing at her.

"How's your lip?" she asked softly.

"I've had a split-lip before," Isaac said quietly.

"I know," she said sadly. Olive glanced at him as she put the cream back in her box; from it, she pulled out a snack-size box of _Dots_ candies; reaching for Isaac's hand, she placed the box in his palm, and smiled sadly at him. "Maybe those will make you feel a little bit better," she said softly. Isaac glanced at the box in his hand, and smiled beautifully to himself; glancing up, he caught her eye, and there was warmth and appreciation in his eyes.

"Thank you," he said softly, with utmost sincerity. Biting her lip, Olive glanced at Isaac again as she closed the custom-designed First Aid box and tucked it back into her locker.

"I, um… I called your house last night," she said, clearing her throat nervously. Isaac glanced up, eyes inquisitive, but almost guarded.

"You did?" he asked softly.

"I think it must have been your dad who answered," she said. "He said you were busy, so…" Isaac gazed at her; she had never been looked at the way Isaac was looking at her just then. There was a lot going on behind those pretty eyes that Olive somehow knew she would never get a hint of.

"What—" Isaac cleared his throat. "What did you call for?"

"I was just… I remembered we have that Chem. test next Monday," she said quietly, shrugging. "I wondered if you wanted to study together. And I found my old tests from Geometry last year, I know you wanted help studying for that, so…" Isaac licked his lips, his eyes thoughtful; he winced slightly at his split lip, and at the sound of the bell, he jumped. Olive checked her watch.

"I… I have to get to class, so…" she indicated the other end of the hall, and Isaac nodded.

"I'll see you later?" he said, and Olive smiled softly, nodding. As she sat down in Classics, she couldn't shake the feeling that something bad was happening to Isaac at home. He had been happy at the arcade, shy but very sweet; just now, he had been pale, jumpy, his eyes had been scared and introverted, closed off. It wasn't until P.E. that she saw the real extent of the damage Isaac had sustained "during lacrosse practice". Olive had changed into her new tankini, and met Stiles out by the edge of the pool.

"Nice bikini," Stiles said, eyeing her up with a blatantly appreciative smirk.

"Thanks," Olive said, glancing down. "I feel so _exposed_." The fit of the tankini top was like that of a proper bra, with underwire, a hidden fastening at the back and adjustable straps, and it felt like she was just wearing a bra and a little pair of panties. In front of fifty-odd guys.

Stiles touched her arm gently. "Hey, you work really hard for that bod. _Own_ it." Olive laughed softly. And then her smile disappeared; tall and skinny, Isaac appeared in the indoor-pool wearing dark-navy board-shorts; flourishing purplish-fuchsia bruising covered almost his entire left side, particularly his ribs. Her eyesight supernaturally perfect, Olive could see that there were in fact two bruises; one was older, the larger, and the newer one was healing quicker, more superficial than the first. She suspected the newer one had come from the lacrosse game on Saturday-night; it overlapped slightly with the older, more brutal bruise.

He was _brave_ to bare it in front of everyone; but Olive could tell how self-conscious he was of it, and she also noticed that nobody seemed to notice Isaac, and if they did, they stared at the bruise but didn't ask him about it, so he didn't have to give the lie he had learned worked; that he had gotten the bruises during lacrosse-practice. He was brave to go home every day when she could tell he was sometimes afraid to; he'd said as much on Saturday-night when he'd lied to his father about going to a party and instead spent the night in an arcade. So he didn't have to go home to the father who had shouted abuse at him throughout the game, despite three goals and two assists.

"_Ouch_," Stiles winced. "Now that's a shiner."

"Yeah," Olive said softly, gazing at Isaac. "Hey, did you have morning-practice today?"

"Not on a Monday morning," Stiles chuckled, and Olive nodded, glancing at Isaac. He _had_ lied about where he'd gotten those bruises and the busted lip. Stiles latched onto her wrist and pulled Olive toward roll-call, without so much as glancing at Scott as he opened his mouth to talk; Olive shrugged at Scott as she past, pulling a _What-do-you-do?_ expression at him.

"You know what, you're gonna be my new glamorous assistant," Stiles said, and Olive raised her eyebrows.

"Oh really?" Olive laughed. "Why's that?"

"Well, I'm tired of playing Robin to Scott's Batman, watching the people I love get hurt while he's off obsessing over Allison," Stiles said, "so I'm forming a new dynamic duo."

"And if I say no?"

"Mm, you don't really have much of a choice," Stiles said. "Or I'll go over to Jackson and tell him you're warm for his form."

Olive clipped him round the ear. "That's the most heartless thing you've ever said, you beast!"

"Mwahahaa!" Stiles chuckled, and Olive rolled her eyes, smiling, releasing the ear she had been pinching.

"Alright, fine," she sighed. "I'll be your new partner-in-crime. Just tell me how long we'll be playing superheroes, so the madness can end and you and Scott make up."

"Not going to," Stiles said stubbornly. "Not until he apologises."

"Waiting for a man to apologise," Olive sighed to herself. "This could take a while." Stiles gave her a look, and she shrugged.

"I'm just tired of feeling unappreciated," Stiles mumbled softly. Olive raised an eyebrow.

"How long have you two been married?" she asked teasingly, trying to lighten the mood, because she didn't like Stiles getting upset. Despite his sarcasm, he was actually quite sensitive. Stiles gave her a look. "I don't know why you think of yourself as Robin, anyway."

"Why shouldn't I think of myself as Robin?" Stiles frowned.

"Well, for one, he wears tights," Olive said, and Stiles nodded. "I see you more as Samwise Gamgee."

"Me?"

"Everybody knows Sam does all the work," Olive said. "While Frodo's being a bitch, whining about the _Prrrreciousssss_, Sam's making sure he doesn't get smothered by Gollum or eaten by giant spider Aragogs—Shelob, whatever! He made sure the Ring didn't get taken by Orcs when Frodo was paralysed. He physically carried Frodo over the finish-line into Mount Doom. And even then, Frodo couldn't get the job done."

"That's true," Stiles sighed, giving Scott a dark look. He frowned, glancing at Olive. "But Hobbits have hairy feet."

"So do you." Stiles' hand flashed out and smacked her round the back of the head, and Olive giggled, smiling, as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

"Sure you don't want to play superheroes?" Stiles asked, glancing hopefully at her. "You've got the right rack for a female superhero."

"He's right," said a voice, and Matt appeared, wielding his camera and smiling, as Olive laughed; as he took photos of her and Stiles, Olive noticed that he alone wore his regular clothes.

"You're not going in?" she asked, and Matt shook his head.

"Can't swim," he said baldly, and Olive nodded. She'd never _not_ known how to swim; she had always loved the water, and on family vacations would spend all the time in the world in the pool or the ocean, and come out brown as a chestnut from the sun, pink-cheeked from a slight sunburn, her hair pigmented by the sun, and grinning from ear to ear. She indicated his camera.

"Yearbook?"

"Nah. Just for me," Matt smiled. "I'll put 'em on _Facebook_, though. Actually, I've got a few more of you guys all together. I'll tag you."

"Excellent," Olive smiled; Matt smiled and wandered off, taking a photograph of Lydia and Allison in their teeny string triangle-bikinis.

"Hey, have you noticed you're the only girl in this class who's _not_ wearing a string bikini?" Stiles asked, glancing around, his eyes inexplicably returning to curvy Lydia.

"That's because I'm the only girl too busty to get away with wearing one," Olive said, sighing, and folded her arms over her chest. She wasn't miserable about not being able to pull off a string-bikini; if she'd wanted to, she could've, but she didn't feel comfortable wearing _less_ than a bra, especially in front of all these guys. And there was less chance this tankini top would come accidentally undone by itself. Or with the help of horny lacrosse-players.

"Amen to that," Stiles sighed, grinning easily. "I'm so glad you're not a stick-insect like Allison. Gives me something nice to stare at when I'm supposed to be studying." Olive rolled her eyes, resisting the urge to clip him round the ear again. She frowned at Allison.

"She is kinda like a stick-insect, isn't she?" she said thoughtfully. "Or a really awkward preying-mantiss."

"With a _pout_," Stiles added, his expression deadpan and disapproving as he glanced at Scott and Allison giggling and flirting together, Lydia rolling her eyes with impatience at the sight of them. Stiles frowned thoughtfully. "Okay, tell me something; how is it that when she's wearing her regular clothes, Allison actually looks like she has boobs, but right now she's completely flat-chested?" Olive glanced at Stiles, smirking with amusement.

"Fifteen-years-old, you've still not discovered the wonders of the _Victoria's_ _Secret_ catalogue?" she giggled softly, shaking her head; Stiles gave her a deadpan look. "Alright, she looks like she has boobs when she's in regular-clothes because she probably wears a padded push-up bra."

"Hm," Stiles said thoughtfully. Flashing her a grin, he said, "Gotta love modern-technology."

"You can; you've never actually had to wear a bra," Olive said; she hated them.

"I thought girls loved lingerie," said a quiet voice, and Olive beamed at Isaac as he sat perched against one of the diving-blocks, arms folded over his front; he had a sweet, incredibly mischievous smile making his blue eyes glitter.

"Some do," Olive said, meandering over to the diving-block. "Scoot over." She perched beside him on the block, and they shared a smile as their arms brushed. "I don't."

"You don't like lingerie?" Stiles prompted, frowning bemusedly.

"My chief enjoyment at the end of every day is taking my bra off," Olive said, deadpan; she waited for that moment when it was late enough in the evening and she knew she wouldn't be leaving the house again, and she could take her bra off and relax.

"See, this is good, this is why we're the new dynamic duo," Stiles said, indicating himself and then Olive. "You're giving me insight into the wonderfully weird world of women."

"Please don't hope I'll be your Anna Stern," Olive grimaced guiltily. "I wouldn't know the first thing about helping you get Lydia."

"Hey, now, that's not the attitude to take," Stiles scolded lightly. "Hang on—does that make me Seth Cohen?"

"Only, more hyperactive," Olive said thoughtfully.

"Hm. I'm Seth Cohen," Stiles said thoughtfully.

"Making comic-book nerds everywhere _sexy_," Olive said, glancing at Isaac, remembering he used to like comic-books; he smiled shyly, and Olive beamed back.

Coach Finstock blew on his whistle, cutting right to Olive's ears, and she winced, glancing over at him: "Alright, everyone in the water! Two warm-up laps, whichever stroke! And I have a request from Chanel; no pulling on the girls' bikini-strings. Greenberg! That means you."

Everybody lined up; behind Olive, Isaac and Stiles lined up with a handful of other guys, and one by one, everyone jostled and shoved to get to a lane and not be the last into the pool; Olive sighed, eyed the water, and with the softest of _plops_ and a tiny ripple, she dove effortlessly into the pool. The water was wonderfully cool, and as she kicked and sliced up to the surface, she felt wonderfully at peace. Slicing through the water with a neat front-crawl, face tucked into the water unless to breathe, it felt lovely.

They spent the rest of the lesson doing laps: front-crawl; backstroke; breast-stroke; butterfly; and then four laps in the stroke of their choice, before the last ten minutes of class were devoted to goofing off and laughing, before climbing out of the pool.

"Why aren't you on the swim-team?" Isaac asked curiously, as they dripped their way toward the locker-room entrances. Olive glanced at him inquisitively. "That dive, it was perfect."

"Oh… I used to swim a lot when I was little," Olive said, shrugging. "My mother wasn't a strong swimmer, so she wanted me to learn. But I loved gymnastics more, so…" Isaac nodded. "What about you? Why aren't you on the team?" Isaac shrugged shyly.

"My brother won State," he said, clearing his throat softly. "Kinda hard to compete with that."

"Ah," Olive said softly, smiling. She guessed he wanted a shot to be good at something without comparisons to his older-brother. They smiled and wandered into their gender-specific locker-rooms; all of the girls were hurrying to get the most powerful shower in the shower-room, offering to share shampoos and asking around for whoever had a travel-hairdryer, or a towel. Taking her time, Olive showered, washing the chlorine out of her hair, and climbed into her clothes. The first week in October, the weather had started to turn, and it had been cool and grey when she had gone for a run early before school; so in the spirit of things, and with her renewed desire to wear fashionable and pretty clothes, wear a little more makeup, she had put on a softest-soft brown cashmere sweater with leather-capped shoulders.

With her hair partially-dried using Lydia's travel-hairdryer, Olive rubbed a little Moroccan oil into her hair to tame it before it dried completely, and with her face fresh and clean, she reapplied the makeup she had taken off before swimming; the residue of her red lipstick had stained her lips, making them look pretty, but she used her _Body Shop_ 'Lipscuff' to soften her lips, and reapplied her favourite _MAC_ 'Redd' liner and used her retractable lip-brush to apply _MAC_ 'Russian Red' lipstick. With an oh-so-subtle application of 'Teddy' eyeliner, smudged and natural-looking, giving her eyes a subtle bit of definition without competing with her lips, she put her makeup away and left the mirror over the faucet for the next girl to use, after dabbing a tiny bit of bronzing gel to each cheek and blending it in with a dab of rosy _Lipstick Queen_ 'Oxymoron' matte gloss that doubled as a blush, in the 'Minor Crisis' shade she had fallen in love with on Saturday-night in _Sephora_.

Stiles was waiting for her outside the girls' locker-room, pointedly ignoring Scott's attempts to talk to him.

"There you are! Finally!" Stiles blurted, surging away from the wall where he'd been waiting, jaw set, and he latched on to Olive's hand and dragged her out of the hall, toward the cafeteria for lunch. Olive secured their regular table while Stiles dashed off down the lunch-line to get his food, and as she pulled out her book for the day, he reappeared, bearing a tray of fried chicken.

"Oh, hey, Ferris Bueller," Olive said, when Scott appeared, bearing his tray and looking hopeful; Stiles ignored him, rearranging everything on his own tray.

"_Ferris Bueller_?" Scott asked bemusedly. Olive stared at him.

"Matthew Broderick? Cult 1980s John Hughes movie?" she said, then gaped, appalled, at Scott's clueless expression. "_Stiles_, I would never have believed this from you—you've let Scott get to sixteen without watching _Ferris_ _Bueller_?"

"In my defence, he wouldn't watch _Life of Brian_ either," Stiles said, still ignoring Scott.

"Away, be gone, to the deepest circle of Hell, you heathen!" Olive gasped, horrified. "You've _never_ watched _Life_ _of_ _Brian_?" She sighed to herself, shaking her head as she brought out her lunch from her backpack. "What is the youth of America coming to? All Justin Beiber and body-con dresses, no culture whatsoever…"

Olive glanced from Stiles to Scott, who sighed, and went to sit with Allison. Olive finished the bite of her beautiful _boeuf_ _bourguignon_ sandwich, licked her lips, took a sip of her apple _Juicy_ _Juice_, watching Stiles, and said after a little while, "This war, this vendetta…this Sicilian _thing_ must end."

"I just would've thought twelve years of friendship would've counted for more than his first girlfriend, so…" Stiles said, opening his water.

"Well, Allison's eyelash-fluttering is _far_ superior to your father's, I have to say," Olive said, and Stiles gave her a look. "Can you two please make up? I'm starting to feel like Hermione stuck between Ron and Harry in _Goblet of Fire_."

"Does that make me Ron?" Stiles asked petulantly, frowning.

"No! James," Olive said, as if this should have been obvious.

"Really?" Stiles grinned.

"Because everybody said he was way more awesome than Remus," Olive smirked. Stiles laughed.

"Who would you rather be?" he asked.

She sipped her _Juicy_ _Juice_ thoughtfully. "Neville."

"He was kind of a BAMF in the end, wasn't he?" Stiles nodded approvingly.

"Quiet hero, like Sam Gamgee. Even Tolkien loved him more than Frodo," Olive smiled warmly; as Jackson and Lydia sauntered past, Jackson bumped Stiles' head with his backpack. "We know who our Draco Malfoy would be, anyway."

"Please let me play _Chamber of Secrets_ with Lydia," Stiles sighed wistfully, gazing after Lydia. "I'll be the Harry to her Ginny any day."

"I wouldn't want to be Harry _or_ Ginny," Olive frowned.

"Why wouldn't you want to be Ginny?"

"Well, for one, she's possessed basically by the wizarding equivalent of Hitler," Olive said, and Stiles nodded. "And in the span of two books, she changes from the silent baby-sister into the girl who is amazing at Quidditch, looks drop-dead gorgeous and dates everyone but you… Kind of unrealistic."

"I bet she's _Got_ _Milk_," Stiles said. "Mrs Weasley was another BAMF."

"Yeah. If evil is a 'beautiful' skinny bitch, and evil is bitch-slapped by _good_, a fat, angry mother, then there is hope," Olive smiled, and Stiles chuckled. She watched him tear into his fried-chicken, a little disgusted. "Please don't eat with your mouth open, Stiles."

"Okay, _Mom_," Stiles said, deadpan. Olive raised an eyebrow, sipping her _Juicy_ _Juice_.

"Please don't call me Mom."

"What can I call you?"

"Anything but that." Stiles frowned thoughtfully at her for a moment, chewing slowly.

Swallowing, he said, "How about 'Sexy'?

Olive thought for a second. "Sure."

Stiles gave her a jaunty grin. "So what're we reading today?"

"_The Shakespeare Secret_," Olive said, showing Stiles the front of the novel she had picked up the other day at the end of her shift at work. "A horror-story based on Shakespeare plays."

"Match made in heaven for you," Stiles smiled, taking a chunk out of his apple. "Any good?"

"It had me shivering with dread at page seven," Olive smiled.

"So, yes," Stiles smiled.

"Oh, hey, I got something for you, too," Olive said, digging into her backpack. "I know you were curious about Wodehouse; here's the first three _Jeeves_ books; _Thank You, Jeeves_, _Brinkley Manor_ and _The Code of the Woosters_—that one's excellent."

"Thanks," Stiles said, looking a little surprised, taking the colourful paperbacks. "You didn't have to do this."

"It's alright; someone was having a yard-sale yesterday when I drove back from the nursery," Olive said, smiling. "They were fifty cents apiece, and I know you wanted to read them, so…"

"Thanks," Stiles grinned again.

"I'd start with _The_ _Code of the Woosters_," Olive said thoughtfully. "The Code might speak to you."

"What's the code?" Stiles asked.

"Well if I told you that, you wouldn't have to read the book," Olive said, smiling; the Code was 'Never let a pal down'. Surprisingly, Stiles decided to tuck into _The Code of the Woosters_ while he finished his lunch, and Olive was left at liberty to read her own novel. When the bell rang, Stiles grabbed his tray to throw the garbage in the trash, and when she had put her lunchbox back in her bag, Stiles grabbed Olive's hand.

"Come on, Sexy," he sighed, stalking toward the doors. Olive laughed, shaking her head. Waiting outside Economics for Coach Finstock to get to the classroom, Olive beamed when Isaac approached shyly.

"Hey," he smiled, leaning against the wall with his ankles crossed, tugging something out of his jacket pocket.

"Hi," Olive smiled. He looked better since P.E.; perhaps the exercise had done him some good, because he didn't look as pale. He pulled out the little box of _Dots_ candy she had given him this morning. "You didn't eat them yet?"

"Knew I'd see you in this class," Isaac said, smiling, as he opened the little box and offered it to her. Olive smiled, plucking out a dark cherry-red candy.

"Hey, Sexy, you're sitting next to me, right?" Stiles said, approaching her; he'd stopped by the bathrooms and now looked around to check for Scott. Isaac's eyebrows rose at hearing Stiles call her 'Sexy'.

"That depends; do you want me to sit next to you because you like the pleasure of my company, or because you just don't want Scott to sit next to you?" Olive asked. Stiles gave her a look. "Fair enough." She sighed, rolling her eyes at Isaac, who was smiling subtly. "Stiles and Scott are having a little trouble with their relationship."

"We are not!" Stiles pouted. "Stiles just has a little trouble with being unappreciated."

"Scott's first girlfriend," Olive said in an undertone to Isaac, who smirked. "Stiles is feeling a little jealous and unloved."

"Classic new-baby syndrome," Isaac nodded, and Olive grinned, giggling, as Stiles narrowed his eyes.

"I do not have new-baby syndrome, okay," he protested indignantly. "And I'm not jealous of Allison. She's all raggedy hair and toothpick legs."

"Wow," Olive laughed, surprised. "_Meow_, Stiles."

"You agree with me about her hair," Stiles said, glancing at her. Olive shrugged, nodding.

"It doesn't seem to know what it's doing," she said, frowning, as she glanced over at Allison waiting with Scott and Lydia; her hair was styled the way she had done it last Friday, as if she'd tried to create ringlets and instead ended up with raggedy, limp almost-dreadlocks, with odd kinks everywhere. "It looks like she's drowned a load of dormice and dyed their tails and clipped them in," she frowned thoughtfully. Stiles laughed, before becoming sombre again, scowling over at Scott and Allison.

"She's breaking up our bromance," he blurted suddenly, wide-eyed, staring at Olive, as if realisation had just hit.

"Well, there'll be lots of other boys, Stiles," Olive said comfortingly, patting his arm.

"Nice boys," Isaac interjected, smirking playfully.

"Won't be nicer than Scott," Stiles pouted petulantly, tugging on Olive's sleeve.

"Well, you'll just love them in a different way, Stiles," Olive sighed, squeezing his shoulders. Stiles sighed heavily, his shoulders drooping, before dragging his notebook out of his bag.

"I've got my homework to finish," he sighed.

"That's good, Stiles," Olive nodded. "Get yourself out there; get on with your life." Stiles uncapped his pen, and sat down on the floor cross-legged, pouting. "Look how cute you are!"

"I hate this," Stiles sighed, pouting again; as Coach Finstock appeared to let them into the classroom, Stiles clambered up off the floor and dawdled into the classroom.

"Poor guy," Olive sighed, shaking her head. "It's like somebody moved his food-dish." Isaac chuckled, and, true to her word, Olive went and sat beside Stiles so Scott couldn't sit next to him. Isaac sat on her other side, sharing the last of the _Dots_ box with her while the class settled down.

Something bounced off Olive's head. A wadded-up paper ball landed on her desk, and she frowned and unfurled it, revealing a very crumpled note penned in Scott's almost-illegible handwriting: _Why won't Stiles talk to me_?

"Great, now I'm the messenger," Olive sighed softly. Isaac, long legs sprawled out under his desk, smiled.

"Don't worry; the U.N. voted, and it's considered rude to kill them," he said, and it triggered something in Olive's memory.

"Do you watch _Lost_ _Girl_?" she asked curiously.

"I'd marry Kenzi in a heartbeat," Isaac said, smiling sweetly.

"Get in line," Olive grinned.

"Yeah, Sexy has a girl-crush on her," Stiles nodded, eyes on the board, and Olive chuckled. Isaac shot Olive a perplexed look.

"Yeah, he's calling me Sexy from now on," she said, and Isaac nodded, then grinned, chuckling. Jackson frowned, sitting in front of Stiles; he glanced at Olive when Coach Finstock turned his back at the _SmartBoard_.

"Why're you letting Stilinski call you 'Sexy'?" he asked.

"Because I'm not allowed to call her 'Mom'," Stiles answered for her, dragging his textbook out from the tray under his seat. Jackson glanced from Stiles to Olive, looking utterly perplexed. He turned back to the front of the class, probably thinking better of inquiring further. Usually wisest with Stiles.

Before Coach Finstock started the _PowerPoint_ presentation for their lecture, Olive quickly wrote a note back to Scott: _You ignored him when something really important was going on; and you're being a jerk and not appreciating everything he's doing for you; also, all you could say when Stiles' dad got hurt was that you were bummed about Allison being grounded. Sort your karma out. And tell Allison not to wear her hair like that again_.

She crumpled the note up and, checking on the coach, lobbed it back to Scott, who was sitting in the back row next to Allison. She whirled back around in her seat, sticking the cap on the end of her _Biro_, and started diligently taking notes while Coach Finstock talked. She hated Economics.

* * *

The Cold War between Stiles and Scott continued through Tuesday. There were ramifications for Olive, as Stiles now spent all his free time texting Olive, or coming into the bookstore to study—which meant Olive tried to do inventory and stack shelves while Stiles consistently upset book-displays and caused the computer to crash.

"Stiles, go sit in the naughty-corner!" Olive said, pointing, and Stiles grimaced, set _The Once and Future King_ on the large round table at the front of the little store and tucked himself on the little padded footstool in the corner by the kids' section. "I don't want to see your butt off that stool unless it's to bring me chocolate-dipped fruit. _Capiche_?"

"_Capiche_," Stiles sighed, in a small voice; he curled up on the stool, gazing over at her with coaxing doe-eyes, as she restocked shelves, scanned barcodes for new inventory, put together the specially-ordered books for individual customers, preparing their numbers to call and tell them their orders had come in.

"Olive…" Stiles said in a small voice, gazing over at her like a little five-year-old. "…Sexy?… Can I get up now? …My ass is going numb…"

"Not until you learn to behave," Olive said, highlighting each item in the delivery invoice as she scanned the barcodes into the computer.

"But Olive—" The door opened, and Olive glanced up, putting on her politely-interested face she reserved for customers she was about to approach to see if they needed help. But it was Isaac, so the polite expression turned into a legitimate smile.

"Hey, Isaac," she beamed.

"Hi," he said shyly. "Um…"

"You need some help?" she asked, smiling warmly.

"I, uh…" Isaac cleared his throat softly. "My French teacher says it might help me to read a novel in French, so…"

"Do you have any preferences?" Olive asked, glancing at the Languages section of the bookcases. "I heard somewhere it's easier to read a novel in a different language that you've already read in English."

"Yeah, um… Just one of the classics, I guess," Isaac said, biting his lip. "Hey, Stiles."

"Do not acknowledge him," Olive said carefully, striding over to the Languages bookcases.

"I'm on the naughty-step," Stiles said sadly.

"Why?" Isaac asked, smiling playfully, as he glanced at Olive for answers.

"Because I knocked over the display," Stiles said, in a small voice, hiding behind his Algebra 2 textbook.

"And made the computer throw a strop," Olive added, scanning the shelves. She pulled down a selection of familiar English-language novels translated into French for Isaac to look through.

"Hey, um… You know what you said, about…calling my house, to study?" Isaac said, as he picked out _The Catcher in the Rye_'s French translation.

"Yes," Olive said softly, nodding.

"I was thinking…maybe I could take up the offer?" Olive smiled.

"Sure," she said softly.

"We were gonna study tonight," Stiles said, walking over; Olive pointed to the corner.

"Naughty-step!" Stiles half-turned, indicating the footstool he was holding to his behind. "You're not allowed to _move_ the naughty-step—"

"I got clearance from the Board of Parole," Stiles said, and Isaac chuckled.

"The penal-system isn't what it should be," Olive sighed, ringing up Isaac's purchase. "Don't _giggle_." She rolled her eyes at Stiles.

"When the legal system has a phallic name, it's no wonder nobody takes it seriously," Stiles sighed.

"Yeah, and it's no wonder the nation's going to hell," Olive sighed. "Sit your ass down on that stool—on the _floor_—and do your homework."

"How come Isaac doesn't have to?" Stiles asked indignantly.

"I'm a paying-customer," Isaac said, smiling sweetly at Olive as he brought out his wallet. Unlike Stiles' and Scott's tattered Velcro wallets, Isaac's was old, battered brown leather. Glancing at the piles of books on the counter, Isaac glanced at her as he handed her a $10 bill. "So what's the system?"

"This is my to-be-scanned pile," Olive said, indicating one pile; gesturing to another, she said, "My already-scanned pile, and this is my pile of books that I've seen and now have to buy." She patted the pile on the chair behind the counter.

"That's a big pile," Isaac raised his eyebrows.

"Yep," Olive sighed, scanning the barcode of his book.

"Bigger than the other two piles put together," Stiles remarked reprovingly.

"Hush, you," Olive said, without looking up at him as Stiles set himself up in the corner again.

"This job must be costing you a fortune," Isaac observed.

"I get a good discount," Olive smiled at him.

"She has an illness," Stiles said. "It's unnatural for a teenager to read so much."

"It's not all reading," Olive said, indicating several of the books: _The Hairy Bikers' Big Book of Baking_; two books on polymer-clay food miniatures; and _A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court_ illustrated by Trina Schart Hyman. "Some of 'em just have pretty pictures." She handed Isaac his book, the receipt tucked into the first page. "So, um… Stiles and I were gonna have dinner at Jim's tonight."

"Yeah, my dad's working tonight so I have to fend for myself," Stiles said.

"Which means I have to provide food for him or he'll waste away," Olive said, giving Isaac a look that made hum chuckle softly. "We were going to Jim's; they let us study there. As long as Stiles doesn't have too much sugar." Stiles gave her a look. "Do you want to come?"

"Uh… Sure," Isaac said, smiling shyly. "That would be great. Um…what time do you finish?"

"I was going to lock up around seven," Olive said; the owner trusted her now to lock up and cash up, sorting out the float for the next day, counting the money twice before putting it in the safe in the storage-room, which also featured the kitchenette and access to the tiny bathroom that had great reading-material stuffed in a magazine-rack. It wasn't a twenty-four hour bookstore; it was a small independent one that specialised in rare, collectible and limited-run books as much as it stocked the trash like _Twilight_ because it sold. So the hours were nine a.m. to seven p.m.

"And I'll probably still be here," Stiles said, deadpan, as he glanced up from his Chemistry textbook.

"Shall I come back, or…meet you there?" Isaac asked.

"Um… We could meet there? Seven-thirty?" Olive suggested, and Isaac smiled, nodding; he took his book, and his change, and said goodbye to Stiles before leaving the shop. She watched the way his jeans swished as he walked, a hungry feeling unfurling rapturously in her stomach. _Isaac Lahey, you slay me_, she thought, biting her lip to keep from smiling too widely.

"Okay, you're officially making me sick," Stiles said.

"What?"

"You eyeballing Isaac like that," he said, shaking his head.

"You write _eddas_ to Lydia's beauty and Scott swoons every time Allison flutters her eyelashes at him, and I'm not allowed to admire Isaac's ass?" Olive said reprovingly, as she opened another box of deliveries to inventory.

"Well, when I can _see_ the pheromones emanating from you while you check him out," Stiles smirked, "no, you're not allowed." Olive glanced up, an eyebrow quirked, and smirked.

"Talk to me when I can't see your _excitement_ at seeing Lydia in a string-bikini," she said, and she smirked as Stiles blushed, clearing his throat, fidgeting on the footstool. "I thought so." She laughed to herself as she scanned the books, putting them onto the digital shop inventory.

Leading up to seven o'clock, she and Stiles studied out of Stiles' Algebra 2 textbook for a quiz Ms Smith had hinted at for Friday, while Olive put the new deliveries onto the shelves, redid the display Stiles had knocked over, phoned up all of the people whose special orders had just arrived, and helped any customers who came in. At a quarter to seven she started preparing to close up, taking the cash out of the register, counting the day's take, counting it _again_, preparing the float and tucking the money in the safe and making sure the front two lights were on in the windows and one in the back corner, before she locked up, and drove herself to Jim's, Stiles following in his _Jeep_. They beat Isaac to the diner; as Stiles spread the table with textbooks amongst glasses of soda and coffee cups, his phone buzzed, and when he ignored it, Olive picked up the touch-screen.

"You have _twenty-six_ texts from Scott and thirteen missed calls," she said, stunned. She sighed. "Stiles, are you still ignoring him?"

"No… Not really," he said touchily, rearranging the salt and pepper shakers. Olive sighed and gave him a gently reproving look.

"He could be trying to apologise," she suggested gently, handing him the phone.

"Or he could be asking me to pass Allison a message because he knows we're lab-partners and her parents will let us hang out even though she's grounded," Stiles said, pouting angrily. "Or I could slip her a balled-up note during Econ."

"That was about Allison's hair," Olive said, waving a hand idly, sipping her water through a straw. Stiles gave her a look. "Seriously. I said to Scott, tell Allison not wear her hair that way again." Stiles snorted gently.

"You expect me to believe you said something so…_girly_?" he said, and Olive smiled, a little bemused: She had always been the most unapologetically girly of girls. But Stiles and Scott had only ever known her since she had been wearing t-shirts and jeans; had she started giving the impression that she was…a tomboy? Unfashionable?

"Well, that's what I wrote," Olive said, sipping her water.

"Hey, speaking of which—how come you're dressing like this?" Stiles asked, indicating Olive's outfit.

"Like what?"

"Well… Pretty," Stiles said. "Yesterday, in that sweater with the leather shoulders, the red lipstick? Your blouse today." Olive had put on her beautifully tailored pink _Liberty_ floral blouse on, pairing it with her fitted dark denim _7 For All Mankind_ jeans and little black leather flats; she was also wearing a lick of vivid fuchsia _Lipstick Queen_ '15 Minutes of Fame' gloss. Her hair was loose, glossy, with Moroccan oil taming the curls that had naturally formed large ringlets over the course of the day.

"Well, you may not believe it… This is how I normally dressed…before I came to Beacon Hills," Olive said, licking her lips slowly.

"Well, thank god, because you looked damn hot in those boots yesterday," Stiles said baldly, and Olive chuckled to herself. "And that _tankini_. You're increasing _my_ coolness quotient by association, hanging out with a gorgeous girl with that rack."

Olive chose not to reply, but sat, chuckling softly to herself, rolling her eyes. Stiles was grumbling by the time Isaac showed up with his heavy backpack, and had already memorised his dinner order.

"I hope you're hungry," Olive said, smiling. "Because I'm starving."

"You shouldn't have waited for me," Isaac said softly, as he climbed into the booth next to Stiles.

"I told her," Stiles said grumpily. He stood up, attracting a waitress' attention by waving his arms as if flagging down an aeroplane. Glancing at Olive, Isaac said softly, "I appreciate this." Olive smiled and reached for Isaac's Geometry notebook, looking over the last pages he had written full of notes.

"Isaac, your handwriting is crap," Stiles remarked idly, sipping his soda.

"It's your eyesight that's bad, Stiles, and we all know what that's caused by," Olive said, handing Isaac his notebook back; he smiled at her playfully.

"Is that a reference to the mythical dangers of self-harm?" Stiles asked.

"Possibly," Olive smirked. Isaac's eyes were warm and sparkling with amusement as he caught her eye, and Olive smiled, sipping her water. As it got later, the crowd thinned out and the hardcore patrons remained; Olive, Stiles and Isaac became the most hardcore of them all, still working on Chemistry and math homework—Stiles helping Isaac with his Geometry; Olive grumbling over her Economics and her Latin homework; Isaac helping Stiles with French vocabulary.

Olive at least felt more confident about the murderous test Mr Harris was planning for next Monday, and by the time they packed up their backpacks, Isaac was smiling, less anxious about his next Geometry quiz. As rain pattered on the windows, Olive glanced at Isaac, who bit his lip and sighed.

"Did you ride your bike?" Olive asked. Isaac cleared his throat.

"No, I…I walked," Isaac said. "I need a new chain for my bike."

"Come on," Olive said, indicating him to follow her; they said goodbye to Stiles, Olive reminding him to answer at least one of Scott's texts so his best-friend knew he was still _alive_, and Isaac climbed into the passenger-seat of her _Impala_.

"They're_ still _not talking to each other?" Isaac said quietly, and Olive gave him a wry smile as she buckled her seatbelt.

"Stiles isn't talking to Scott," she corrected, with a sigh. "Though how much longer that'll last, I don't know."

"What do you mean?"

"I might just have to take matters into my own hands and lock them in a small room with a bottle of _Jack_," Olive said, and Isaac chuckled softly.

"They'll either sort out their issues or kill each other," Isaac said, clearing his throat softly. Olive chuckled warmly.

"Well, I hope Scott apologises soon," she sighed. "They work better as a package-deal." Isaac smiled.

"I always remember them being best-friends in elementary-school," he said thoughtfully. "I was always kind of jealous of it."

Shifting gears, Olive smiled. "Yeah, I know what you mean. Those books and movies where the characters have been best-friends since birth. I'd love that."

"You didn't know your friends from Arizona all your life?" Isaac asked, and Olive smiled, that he had remembered where she had moved from.

"I moved once when I was four, and again when I was eleven," she said, glancing at Isaac as she turned the wipers and idled at a stop-light.

"Where from?"

"Uh, well… When I was two, my mother remarried, and he had Afro-Fijian citizenship, so we all lived in Fiji for a little while."

"You lived in Fiji?" Isaac stared.

"Until I was four. My favourite movie at the time was _The Blue Lagoon_, so I played 'Richard and Emmeline' a lot with my first little boyfriend, Raymond." Isaac chuckled.

"So where did you move to, if not Arizona?"

"We moved to Tennessee—I got really into Blues and Country. I was _infatuated_ with Johnny Cash and Tim McGraw until I was ten. I even had posters of them up on my ceiling so I could gaze at them while I fell asleep," Olive smiled, and Isaac laughed. "Just before I started sixth-grade we moved to Arizona. What about you, have you always lived in Beacon Hills?"

"Always," Isaac nodded. "I was born here. So was Camden. And my mom."

"I was born here, actually," Olive said, smiling at Isaac. "Both of my parents, too. My father's family actually kind of…founded Beacon Hills."

"So you're the only Royea who's ever spread her wings," Isaac said, and Olive smiled.

"I do appreciate being so well-travelled," she said thoughtfully. "Especially having grown up in my stepfather's culture… I liked travelling so much. Do you like to travel?"

"I've…never actually been anywhere but Tahoe," Isaac said.

"Lake Tahoe? For skiing?" Olive asked, and Isaac nodded.

"Have you been skiing up there?"

"Yeah, once, when I was eleven," Olive said, smiling. "It was the last vacation I had with my grandfather. I was his little ski-babe." Isaac chuckled.

"My mom used to love Tahoe," he said softly. "When she was a teacher at Beacon Hills Elementary, she'd have summer vacations off and we'd spend like a month there every summer, in a caravan, on this campsite with a bunch of other families, tonnes of kids to play with, going to the lake every day." Olive smiled.

"That sounds nice," she said softly. "Would you ever like to travel more?"

"Maybe," Isaac said softly.

"Stiles has this idea, he read _On the Road_ over the summer, and next summer he wants to do a pie-eating tour across America," Olive smiled.

"His _Jeep_ could make it all across America and back?"

"I think the consensus was that I'd have to do all of the driving," Olive said, chuckling, and Isaac laughed.

"Well, someone with common sense would have to go along and make sure those two didn't get themselves killed," Isaac said, smiling sweetly. Olive chuckled.

"Yeah. Thelma and Louise. Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dee. Fred and George," she sighed, shaking her head. "They're incorrigible."

"This car is amazing, by the way," Isaac said, examining the interior with admiring eyes. Olive smiled.

"Thank you," she said softly. "Um… Where do you actually live?"

"Oh—take a right up here," Isaac said, and Olive smiled as she indicated and glanced around before turning. Isaac directed her to his house, which was large, redbrick and trimmed with soft sage-green.

"It's a nice house," Olive said, gazing through the windscreen.

"Thanks," Isaac said softly, gazing through the window with apprehensive, almost fearful eyes. "So, um…" he cleared his throat softly. "Thanks, for today."

"I had fun," Olive said honestly, smiling.

"Me too," Isaac said sadly. He cleared his throat again and glanced at her, licking his lips. "So I guess I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Olive smiled. "I'll see you tomorrow."

* * *

**A.N.**: Hello everyone, this might be my last update for a little while because I'm going on holiday for two weeks in Spain, _without internet access_! Or a computer. Eek. So I'll be hand-writing everything while I'm away, soaking up the sun and some sangria!


	7. Chapter 7

**A.N.**: Hi everyone, I'm _baack!_ I did two weeks' worth of hand-writing stories! Which equalled over a hundred and twenty pages! So I've got plenty of updates for my _Pleiades_ story, and I also wrote another few chapters for _Actaeon_. So I'll update this now and please review!

* * *

**The Judgement of Actaeon**

_07_

* * *

If Olive had been worried about having to resort to desperate measures to get Stiles to talk to Scott again, her anxiousness over a twelve-year friendship falling apart was unfounded: Stiles couldn't resist the snare of Scott claiming he'd gone to Derek for help instead of him—or rather, he had told Stiles that he had gone to Derek for help so nothing like what had happened to Sheriff Stilinski would happen again on his watch.

Given that neither of the boys trusted Derek, it said something that Scott had gone to him in the first place, and that he had been desperate enough to go against Stiles' better-judgement and approached Derek said a lot about Scott's mental-state without Stiles to talk to. Stiles didn't trust Derek, Scott trusted Stiles, but Scott knew only Derek had the answers he needed, and Stiles would do whatever it took to keep Derek out of any scenario that involved Scott.

Wednesday-morning passed normally enough; in English, Scott and Stiles got back together. Nobody who knew them could say they had anything but a deeply entrenched bromance going on; few thought anything could get between the two. But apparently a skinny brunette with doe eyes and a whiny pout could do it in a heartbeat.

And Stiles took great delight in punishing Scott for ignoring and not appreciating him the last few weeks. Half of the reason Stiles agreed to help was to punish him, and Olive giggled delightedly, hands on her knees because she was laughing so hard as Stiles used his lacrosse-stick to pelt Scott with lacrosse-balls as hard as he could throw them.

Isaac, sitting in his French class, glanced out of the window, having finished with his vocabulary quiz, and sat up a little straighter in his desk. On the lacrosse field, he could see Stiles Stilinski, with his lacrosse-stick, pelting Scott, who had his hands bound behind his back, with balls; a third figure was wandering around idly, picking up the balls that ricocheted off Scott. Tall and long-legged, Olive had a _killer_ figure; he loved her curly hair, and he sat up straighter still and smiled, because she had started _juggling_ three of the balls. Juggling them, as if it was nothing, smiling and wandering back toward Stiles.

He guessed Scott was submitting himself to some form of punishment so Stiles would forgive him for whatever he'd done to make Stiles angry.

"You know what, I think my aim is actually improving," Stiles said delightedly, grinning, and Olive giggled as she juggled three of the lacrosse-balls she had gathered, grinning over at Scott as he took another ball to the—well, balls.

"I wonder _why_!" Scott growled.

"Uh-uh-uh, don't get angry," Stiles scolded.

"Not getting angry," Scott gasped, groaning in pain as Stiles shot another ball at him.

"You take too much delight in this, Stiles," Olive smiled, watching Stiles as he grinned from ear to ear, launching ball after ball at his best-friend, using the experiment with the heartbeat monitor as an excuse to punish Scott. As the beeping on Stiles' "temporarily misappropriated" cell-phone got faster and faster, Olive dropped the balls she had been juggling and she and Stiles checked the phone, noticing Scott's heart-rate going up to 167, into the red danger-zone, as he fell to the ground on his knees, groaning and panting. He ripped the duct-tape keeping his hands bound together behind his back, claws digging into the ground as he groaned and tried to fight the transformation. Olive glanced at Stiles, who stared from the phone to his best-friend, and as they gave Scott a moment, the heart-rate monitor slowed, going back to green.

"Scott, you started to change," Stiles said concernedly, glancing at his best-friend.

"From anger…" Scott grunted, panting. "But it was more than that… The angrier I got, the stronger I felt."

"So it is anger then, Derek was right," Stiles said, glancing at Olive, who shrugged. She wasn't an expert on werewolves by a long-shot; she was an expert on Moses and Ruby, and over the last two years she had become more and more involved in her mother's heritage, studying the supernatural, so that when someone like Derek came to her with a wolfsbane-infected bullet-wound, she knew what to do.

"I can't be around Allison," Scott panted. Olive glanced at Stiles, who frowned bemusedly.

"Just because she makes you happy?"

"Because she makes me weak."

* * *

"So you stay away from her for a few days, you can do that," Stiles said, as he and Scott meandered out of the boys' locker-room, where they'd divested themselves of their lacrosse-gear before their next class.

"But is it a few days, or is it forever?" Scott mumbled.

"You know, this whole women-make-you-weak thing is a little too Spartan-warrior for me," Stiles said, smiling as Olive pushed off from the wall to fall into step beside him. "It's probably just part of the learning-process."

"Yeah, but you've seen Derek," Scott sighed miserably. "I mean, the guy's totally alone."

"They're not all like that," Olive said carefully, glancing at Scott. So far he hadn't gotten a very good picture of werewolves by any stretch of the imagination, but Olive had been on the periphery of several packs, had lived with two werewolves, and she knew that werewolves were as unique as humans. And with everything that had happened to his family, Olive could understand why Derek didn't want anyone close to him: for someone like him, anyone he was close to easily became a target for people like the Argents to use against him. "Moses wasn't like that, at all… Derek's just lost his sister, his Alpha. His _pack_. Of course he's alone." She sighed, nettled, frowning; Stiles paused, frowning thoughtfully.

"What if I can never be around Allison again?"

"How about, if you can _not kill_ your best-friend on full-moon nights?" Olive suggested, getting a little annoyed that the A-word kept coming up every single sentence that came out of Scott's mouth. She remembered having her first boyfriend, but this was getting cringe-worthily annoying. It was like… _Bella_… _Ick_. "Or your _mother_? Or the sheriff."

"Or you," Stiles added, with an affectionate smile, and Olive smiled back.

"Superheroes sacrifice their own happiness for the good of the many," she said to Scott. "Remember that."

"Yeah, even Frodo lost a finger," Stiles said, and Olive chuckled, not sure that helped any. "And he was just a figurehead. And, hey, if you're not dead from Allison's father killing you when you go marauding for flesh on the full-moon, that could be a good thing."

"I'd rather be dead," Scott mumbled morosely.

"Okay, Bella Swan, I'm getting a little concerned about this relationship," Olive said, eyes wide. "You've only been dating like a _month_."

"So?"

"So, I think it might be good for you and Allison to take a step away, come up for air, take a breather," Olive said, staring at Scott.

"You're not going to end up like Derek," Stiles assured his best-friend. "Who knows, we get your lunar-cramps under control, you could someday have a family like Olive's stepdad." Olive snorted gently at 'lunar-cramps'. "But you're not gonna get it overnight and you're not gonna get it at _sixteen_. And definitely not before the next full-moon. We'll figure it out."

"Okay," Scott sighed.

"Lunar-cramps…" Olive smirked playfully. "Maybe we could pump you full of _Midol_ on the full-moon."

"Yeah," Stiles chuckled, and then he got that dangerous look on his face, the we're-gonna-get-into-trouble face Scott dreaded. "Or…"

"Oh no," Scott sighed. "You're getting another idea, aren't you?"

"For the full-moon? Definitely," Stiles grinned. "How would you feel about stealing enough ketamine from the vet to knock out an elephant?"

"Stiles, I don't think stealing ketamine is such a good idea," Olive said gently.

"Hey, what did your stepdad and little sister use?" Scott asked, glancing at Olive.

"What do you mean?"

"To stay in control on the full-moon, and not kill you and your mom?"

"They were werewolves by birth; they were taught from infancy to control the moon's sway," Olive said quietly. "It's different for people who're bitten."

"That's what Derek said," Scott sighed.

"It's a different process to get there, but the end result is still the same," Olive assured him. "With time you'll be able to control the change at will." It was the basic principle that teenaged boys were lazy and incapable of pushing themselves to do something, even if it was for their benefit.

"Come on, we've got Econ," Stiles sighed, dragging Olive by her sleeve. Crowding around the door into their Economics classroom, everyone filed in, chatting loudly and laughing, and Coach Finstock dumped a load of books and legal-pads on his desk, gazing around. "Let's go. Sit, sit, sit, sit. We've got a lot to cover today. Let's go. Quicker!"

"Stiles!" Scott hissed, as Allison approached the same aisle his desk was in. "Sit behind me!" Stiles grabbed his backpack and hopped over to the desk behind Scott's, sticking one leg over the bar of the desk to the seat. Olive, in the first row, suddenly found herself _not_ sitting beside Stiles; she watched, composition-notebook and pen out, as Allison paused at the desk Stiles was currently struggling to navigate himself into, giving him this _expectant_ look.

After a second's pause and that _look_, Stiles glanced at Scott, shrugging apologetically, and hopped out of the desk, claiming the one next to Olive's; he shot Olive a look, sighing and shaking his head, and Olive raised her eyebrows expressively.

"Hey," Allison smiled.

"Hey!" Scott said awkwardly, glancing at Olive and Stiles.

"I haven't seen you all day!" Allison complained.

"Uh, yeah, I've been, uh…busy," Scott said.

"When're you gonna get your phone fixed, I feel like I'm totally disconnected from you," Allison said, and Olive rolled her eyes when Stiles glanced at her; one evening of not hearing anything from her boyfriend and she was _disconnected_? This wasn't 1850s Oregon where it took twelve miles, two horses and a cart to get from town to the secluded backwoods farm.

"Uh, soon," Scott said. "Real soon."

"Didn't your phone smash like _last night_?" Olive asked Scott, frowning.

"Yeah," Scott said. Olive raised her eyebrows, glancing from him to Allison.

"Wow," she said, shaking her head. She'd had friends who had been very clingy with their boyfriends, overexcited and chatty, running up horrendous cell-phone bills, so she was always careful about the frequency with which she texted and called boys. She preferred to write letters anyway. It was far more personal. "She sure keeps you on a short leash." Stiles giggled.

"I traded lab-partners with Danny, by the way," Allison said to Scott, who blinked, frowning.

"With Danny?"

"Yeah, he's gonna pair with Stiles now, so we can be together," Allison said.

"Um, _I_ didn't give clearance on this," Stiles said, staring at Allison, who flushed, partially ignoring him as she pouted, frowning at Scott. Stiles turned to Olive, his expression disbelieving. Olive chuckled, smirking at Allison.

"Wow," she said again.

"They're making me sick," Stiles murmured, and he dragged his desk out of alignment with the others in his aisle, pushing it up flush against Olive's, caging her in. "Seriously, if I ever act like that with my first girlfriend, you have permission to force me into mandatory de-whipping detox." Olive laughed, opening her composition-notebook to the summary she had written of last night's reading.

"You traded partners to work with me?" Scott said to Allison uncertainly. "I mean… Are you sure?"

"Yeah," Allison beamed. "This way, I have an excuse to bring you home to study." Olive rolled her eyes as someone climbed into the desk behind her.

"Oh," Scott said, with about as much enthusiasm as used cat-litter. Allison's expression faltered; she fluttered those long eyelashes and pouted.

"You don't mind, do you?" she mumbled.

"I just, I don't want to, um, bring your grade down," Scott said, looking chagrined. From what Olive had heard, Scott couldn't exactly afford to 'study' with his girlfriend.

"Oh, well maybe I could bring your grade up," Allison said. Stiles rolled his eyes, and Olive laughed.

"It's gonna be hard for Scott to focus on Chemistry with your hands down his pants," she remarked idly, fiddling with her pen suggestively, and Allison flushed as Scott hid a big grin, and behind her, someone laughed softly as Stiles reached out to whack her round the back of the head, though he was grinning.

"Ow! That's assault!" Olive blurted, sitting up and rubbing her head as she glanced over her shoulder, catching Isaac's eye with a smile. "Coach, he hit me!"

"Kids, behave or I will ground you both," Coach Finstock said, without looking up from his roster.

"But he started it!" Olive frowned.

"Nuh-uh."

"Yeah-huh." Coach Finstock glanced up, frowning at them perplexedly.

"Stilinski!—_what are you doing_? Move your desk over," he ordered.

"This is how I found it," Stiles said innocently.

"Isn't the separation-anxiety from McCall getting to you?" Coach Finstock asked drily.

"Not now that we've got a new dynamic duo," Stiles said, reaching around to squeeze Olive to him in a hug.

"Royea?" Coach Finstock raised an eyebrow.

"Yep, I'm the ADHDiac, say hello to Sexy," Stiles sighed, stroking Olive's hair. She gave him a look.

"Allison's lapdog, Scotty, is our mascot," she added, gesturing to Scott; he and Allison both blushed, as everyone laughed.

"Now, now, clingy girlfriends are not a laughing-matter," Coach Finstock said, arms folded over his chest as he leaned against his desk; Olive and Stiles smirked, laughing, as Allison flushed. It was the only colour Olive had ever seen in her paler-than-snow cheeks. "I could tell you horror-stories about _my_ sophomore year at high-school. I still wake up in the middle of the night, afraid she'll be gazing at me through the window."

"Like _Suspiria_," Olive grinned.

"What's that?" Coach Finstock asked.

"1977 Italian horror-movie. _Fantastic_," Olive grinned. "There's this one scene where the girl's staring at the window—only to realise there are eyes staring _right back at her_."

"I prefer _Independence Day_," Coach Finstock said unapologetically. Olive smiled.

"Aliens. You should try _Alien_. Or _The_ _Thing_," she said enthusiastically, smiling.

"I'm a little concerned about you, Royea," Coach Finstock said, giving her an eccentric look. "I thought girls were supposed to hate horror-movies." Olive laughed.

"She hates Nicholas Sparks movies," Stiles said. Olive shivered; she really did.

"Didn't you get enough love as a child, Royea?" Coach Finstock frowned.

"Oh, no, I did. My mom loved to scare the hell out of me, too, though," Olive said, grinning. Coach Finstock nodded.

"Alright! Let's start with a quick summary of last night's reading!" he said, glancing around the class; those who hadn't done their reading were conspicuous in that they all kept their heads down, trying not to catch Coach's attention. "Greenberg, put your hand down, everybody knows _you_ did the reading. How about, uh… McCall?"

"What?" Scott said softly, looking chagrined.

"The reading."

"Last night's reading?" Scott asked.

"Uh, how about the reading of the Gettysburg Address?" Coach Finstock suggested drily.

"What?" Scott frowned.

"That's sarcasm. You familiar with the term, _sarcasm_, McCall?" Glancing back at Stiles, Scott answered, "Very." Stiles smiled jauntily.

"Did you do the reading or no?" Coach asked.

"Uh… I think I forgot."

"Nice work, McCall. It's not like you're averaging a D in this class," Coach Finstock sighed, and several people _Oooh_'d. Leaning against Scott's desk, Coach Finstock's expression became serious. "Come on, buddy, you know I can't keep you on the team if you have a D. How about you summarise the previous night's reading? No? How about the, uh, the night before that? How about you summarise _anything_ you've ever read _in your entire life_?"

"I…"

"A blog?" Coach Finstock pressed. "How about the back of a cereal-box? No? How about the adults-only warning from your favourite website that you visit every night?" Olive bit her lip, glancing at Scott, and Stiles, who was monitoring Scott's rising heart-rate. "Anything? Thank you, McCall. _Thank you_, McCall—_thank_ _you_! for extinguishing any _last flicker _of hope I'd had for your generation. You just blew it for everybody. Thanks." Coach Finstock leaned against his desk, looking very annoyed. "Next practice, you can start with suicide runs. Unless that's too much reading… Alright, everybody else, settle down," Coach Finstock sighed. Olive glanced at the cell-phone Stiles had tucked under his desk, which was showing Scott's heart-rate to be reducing; Stiles glanced pointedly at Allison, and Olive saw that, beneath her desk, she had her fingers laced through Scott's. Glancing around, Coach Finstock made eye-contact with Olive. "Royea, you wrote your summary of the reading?"

"Yes, sir," she said quietly, glancing away from Allison and Scott's intertwined hands.

"Read it out to us," he sighed tiredly, gesturing. "Come on, let's go." Clearing her throat, Olive glanced down at what she had written, and read it aloud. The rest of the class, Olive took notes and answered questions whenever Coach Finstock called on her; she didn't like Economics, but participating sometimes improved grades, so she did what she had to. But she couldn't believe that after only a month, Allison, his _first_ girlfriend, had become Scott's emotional anchor. Still embarrassed over Coach Finstock's tirade about his ineptitude, and his lack of priorities regarding his schoolwork, thus, not caring that his place on the Lacrosse team could be compromised because of his bad grades, Scott hurried out of the classroom; Stiles grabbed hold of Olive's sleeves, making her stride along behind him, her arms laden with things she hadn't managed to yet put in her backpack.

"It's her," Stiles declared, as he released Olive's sleeve, letting her put her things in her backpack. She zipped it up and slung it over one shoulder.

"What do you mean?" Scott asked.

"It's Allison," Stiles sighed. "Remember when you told me about the night of the full-moon? You were thinking about her, right, about protecting her?"

"Okay," Scott said slowly.

"Remember the night of the first lacrosse-game? You said you could hear her voice out on the field."

"Yeah, I did," Scott nodded.

"Well, so that's what brought you back, so you could score," Stiles explained. "And then, after the game in the locker-room, you didn't try to kill her—at least, not like how you were trying to kill me. She brings you back, is what I'm saying."

"No, no, no, but it's not always true. Because seriously, every time I'm kissing her, or touching her—" Olive wrinkled her nose, as Stiles interrupted.

"That's not the same," he said. "That's completely different; when you're doing that, you're just being another hormonal teenager. Olive, back me up—have you ever been with a teen-wolf?"

"Well…yes," Olive said honestly. She had been on dates with _four _teenaged werewolves, some of them bitten, some born, but all horny as hell and rough-and-tumble. She'd gotten a lot of grass-stains this summer. "It's harder to control things when your hormones are going crazy, especially when you're thinking about sex."

"You're thinking about sex right now, aren't you?" Stiles scolded, because Scott's expression had become glazed.

"Yeah," Scott laughed, and Olive rolled her eyes. "Sorry."

"That's fine," Stiles sighed impatiently. "Look, back in the classroom, when she was holding your hand, that was different. I don't think she makes you weak, I think she actually gives you control. Like the anchor you mentioned, Sexy."

"You mean because I love her," Scott said.

"Exactly," Stiles nodded. Scott froze.

"Did I just say that?" Scott breathed.

"Yes, you just said _that_," Stiles said, pursing his lips.

"I love her," Scott said softly.

"That's great. Now, moving on—"

"No, no, really. I think I'm totally in love with her."

"Excuse me, just one minute, I have to go and _vomit_ now," Olive said drily, giving Scott a deadpan expression.

"Hang on," Stiles said, grabbing hold of Olive's backpack, so she had to retrace her steps back or lose it. "Before _you_ puke and _you_ start writing a sonnet, can we figure this out, please, because you obviously can't be around her all the time."

"Yeah, yeah, sorry," Scott said, visibly shaking himself. "So what do I do?"

"I don't know, yet," Stiles sighed, turning in a circle, as his expression changed slowly.

"Oh, no," Scott sighed, the same thought dawning on him as in Olive's mind as she watched Stiles' expression. "You're getting an idea, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

"Is this idea gonna get me in trouble?" Scott asked resignedly.

"Maybe."

"Is this idea gonna cause me physical pain?" Scott asked, as if he already knew the answer.

"Yeah, definitely. Come on." Olive resisted the tug on her sleeve, and Stiles glanced back at her.

"I've got to get to Classics," she reminded him, and Stiles nodded. "I'll see you guys later."

"Hey, we won't see you after school; you've got gymnastics, right?" Stiles said, and Olive nodded.

"Yeah, and then it's food-shopping," she said. She always shopped mid-week so she'd have food over the weekend, when she liked to devote her Sundays to doing things she didn't get to during the rest of the week.

"You don't have work?" Stiles asked.

"No," Olive smiled gently. "So call me, we can maybe do something."

"Okay," Stiles grinned, and grabbed hold of Scott by the back of his sweatshirt and his backpack, and tugged him up the stairs.

Four days, and the original dynamic-duo was back. If she'd had a bet with anyone, she would have been cashing in just then, but she hadn't; she sat in Classics, going through the Greek plays, the latest instalment of _The_ _Aeneid _they'd just finished reading for homework, and one of the temples at Delphi. When the school-day was done, Olive had to change into her gym-kit to go and train in the small gym, which contained the gymnastics equipment. With a gymnastics meet being hosted by their school this weekend, it had all been cleaned and was ready for the visiting school; they did incredibly difficult warm-ups, pull-ups on the bars, ran around the track several times, and did skin-the-cats and worked on their core a lot, and their arms, stretched their thighs to the limit and pushed their arms over their heads, lying on the floor on their stomachs, did push-ups and then, they got onto the equipment, doing things a Navy SEAL did, only without the gun. And for _fun_.

Olive loved gymnastics; falling, tumbling, spinning in the air, flinging herself around and around the uneven bars, doing impossible twists on bar, flooring it on floor-exercise, and running towards a completely stationary object full-throttle. She didn't care that she had to tape her ankle, that her palms got rips on her rips, peeling bits of skin the size of quarters off her hands, that she had to have ice-baths if she'd gone a while between the truly intense training-schedule she loved.

Plus, she liked to watch the boys do their rings workouts. Their arm-muscles were insane.

After gymnastics training, Olive showered in the school locker-rooms and got dressed, put everything in her car, including her P.E. swim-kit, beach-towel and hair-wrap, and drove to the grocery-store. She did something she rarely did, and cheated for dinner: she bought herself a packet of hot duck spring-rolls from the takeout counter, and a small tub of Thai green curry and peanut chicken pad-Thai. She picked out all her fruit and vegetables, meat for the week's meals she had planned, anything extra she needed like flour for her bread-making, another bag of sugar, a stovetop butter-popcorn, new razors and ceran-wrap.

Olive didn't buy sweet things or candy, normally; she wasn't a sugar-freak and preferred soups and casseroles to _Sour_ _Patch_ _Kids_, but remembering the date again, she picked out a box of _Red_ _Velvet_ cake-mix (something she rarely did, buy cake-mixes; she preferred to do things properly, from scratch) a tub of vanilla frosting, a tiny bottle of red food-dye and a little tub of silver sugar-balls. She also picked up a bag of assorted snack-sized candies, including _Reese's_, _Dots_, _Heath_ bars, _Tootsie_ _Rolls_ and _Charleston Chews_, _M&M_s and _Baby_ _Ruth _bars. Not for herself; she just needed to restock her school First Aid kit. And Halloween was coming up; she was sure Stiles would be hunting for candy wherever he could mooch it from. She found little birthday-candles and a single bottle of _Diet_ _Coke_, a small bag of marshmallows and gumdrops from the pick-n-mix, and a small tub of rich vanilla ice-cream. She had yellow-swirl straws at home; she paid for everything, carrying it out to the backseat of her _Impala_, and made her way home, eating one of the duck spring-rolls that were still piping-hot and delicious. She had loved a Thai restaurant back in Arizona, but had yet to seek one out in Beacon Hills. She much preferred flavourful Thai curries and noodles to bland Chinese rice dishes. She always seemed to be in a minority about that amongst her friends; but she liked the odd Thai curry as a treat, particularly after she'd had a long day, and her muscles were aching wonderfully.

By the time she got home and put her shopping away, seriously considering again the idea of having her own vegetable-garden, now that she had the property, the space and the desire to do it, she sat down with her dinner and a glass of water, her stereo on because growing up, the television, which had always only ever been in the living-room, had never been allowed to go on during meals, which she had _always_ eaten with her family. Every night. And now, the silence was oppressive whenever the television or the stereo wasn't on.

She had done the washing-up and finished her Algebra 2 assignment when lights flashed outside, and she got up and opened the front-door, raising her eyebrows at the blue _Jeep_ that lurched to a stop right out front.

"Hey!" she smiled, as Stiles kicked open his door, clambering out of his seat. "What're you guys doing here?"

"We need you, in the _Jeep_, now," Stiles said, indicating his car.

"Okay, why?" Olive asked, striding into the house to turn off her stereo and grab her battered old cropped denim jacket from the three-prong coat-rack she had put up on the wall; she tucked her house-key into her jeans pocket, flicking her hair out from the collar of her jacket as she hopped down the porch-steps and clambered into the _Jeep_.

"Scott's gonna try and lure the Alpha into showing himself," Stiles said, as Olive tucked herself in carefully in the back.

"That sounds like a truly terrible idea," she said, pausing, and stared at the two boys.

"But you're still in," Stiles said. It wasn't a question.

"Somebody's got to take care of you two clowns," Olive sighed. Luring the Alpha for a confrontation. Didn't seem the wisest of ideas.

"Oh, so we're clowns now?" Scott asked from the front-passenger seat.

"I call it like I see it," Olive said, sighing as she leaned back in the back of the _Jeep_, Stiles driving them back through the woods towards 'civilisation' and the main road that led into downtown Beacon Hills. "So…what inspired this pack-reunion?"

"Derek…thinks my boss Dr Deaton might be the Alpha," Scott said, glancing back at her; as a car passed in the opposite direction, his eyes flashed.

"What?" Olive frowned.

"Yeah, he went to the vet's clinic, started beating the crap out of him, over some…some spiral, apparently the cops went to him to ask about whether he'd ever seen a spiral painted on the side of a deer in blood," Scott said, and Olive blinked; a spiral? Werewolves used different symbols to communicate different things amongst their packs, and between others, things no Hunter could ever learn. "And then Derek got a copy of the police-report on the windscreen of his car when he went to visit his uncle."

"So…what're we doing?" Olive asked, glancing around as Stiles drove them on a familiar route she used most days to get to school, unless she had to run early-morning errands.

"Well…Derek's giving us the chance to prove Dr Deaton isn't the Alpha," Scott sighed. Olive frowned.

"I wouldn't think he is," she said.

"Why not?"

"Because he's a vet," Olive said, shrugging. "The dogs that come in to see him would be affected by it—you know how you set dogs barking in your neighbourhood?"

"Yeah." Scott frowned, as if he was wondering how he'd not thought of that.

"Dr Deaton…" Olive said thoughtfully, frowning. She'd never yet met Scott's boss, but had heard from Scott that he was a very kind man.

"What?" Scott prompted.

"Oh, nothing, it's just… For some reason, I…I can't shake the feeling that Laura might've mentioned him once. I don't know," Olive sighed. She was sure Laura had mentioned a man in Beacon Hills that she had trusted, who…sort of took care of the Hale family, at least as far as medical requirements and advice were concerned. A _friend_, but a very discreet one. Olive wasn't sure if he was the same person Laura had mentioned in passing…but if he was, this wasn't the Alpha that Derek was looking for.

Stiles parked the Jeep haphazardly outside Beacon Hills High School. Olive peered through the windscreen at the darkened school, suddenly feeling a sense of foreboding. It was those blank, dark windows. She really shouldn't have mentioned _Suspiria_ this afternoon during Econ… She clambered out of the _Jeep_—Stiles, the unconscious gentleman that he was, offered her a hand out without even realising it, and he unlatched the back, taking out a large flashlight and…a pair of yellow bolt-cutters.

"Um…bolt-cutters…locked high-school," she said slowly, glancing from Stiles to the front-doors of the school. She sighed. "I know you well enough now not to ask why."

"This is a terrible idea," Stiles declared.

"Yeah, I know," Scott sighed.

"But we're still gonna do it?" Stiles blurted.

"Can you think of something better?" Scott asked.

"Well, personally I'm a fan of ignoring a problem until eventually it just goes away," Stiles said, and Olive chuckled, smiling.

"Just make sure we can get inside," Scott sighed.

"Hang on, why do we need bolt-cutters when you're supernaturally strong?" Olive asked, and Stiles glanced from her to the bolt-cutters to Scott, and sighed, rolling his eyes at his oversight of the obvious.

"Oh. Right," Scott said, with a half-smile. Glancing up when lights flashed, Olive glanced around and smiled as a familiar black car approached. "He's here." Derek pulled his car up beside the _Jeep_, and the boys approached. "Where's my boss?" Scott demanded, frowning.

"He's in the back," Derek said impatiently, rolling his eyes slightly, and they all moved to peer into the backseat of his car. Olive gave him a reproving expression, seeing a man duct-taped and bound, unconscious on the backseat of the car.

"Well, he looks comfortable," Stiles remarked drily. Scott glanced over his shoulder at the school and indicated them to follow him.

"Hey, what're you doing?" Derek called, frowning.

"You said I was linked with the Alpha," Scott said quietly. Sighing, he gazed over the front of the school. "I'm gonna see if you're right." It didn't take much for Scott to tug the padlock off the chain keeping the front-doors bound shut. Stiles chuckled softly to himself and leaned the bolt-cutters just inside the door, clicking on the flashlight; he led the way toward the administration offices.

"Okay, one question, what're you gonna do if the Alpha doesn't show up?" Stiles asked, and Olive followed, hands in the pockets of her jacket, as he led the way into the front-desk, fiddling with something as he turned on the intercom system.

"I don't know," Scott sighed.

"And what're you gonna do if he does show up?" Stiles asked anxiously.

"I don't know."

"Good plan," Stiles said drily.

"It has all the markings of a Stiles Stilinski plan," Olive said, giving Stiles a look, and he gave her a deadpan expression.

"You said that a wolf howls to signal its position to the rest of the pack?" Scott said uncertainly, glancing at Stiles; Olive answered.

"Werewolves use it in an emergency, usually, if they're caught or hurt," she clarified. "Or hunting."

"But if Scott brings the Alpha here, does that make him part of his pack?" Stiles asked worriedly.

"I hope not," Scott said softly, on a small sigh.

"Yeah, me too," Stiles said, before setting the intercom microphone on the counter in front of Scott. "Alright. All you."

Scott tried to howl. And failed abysmally.

Olive burst out laughing.

"Was that okay?" Scott asked uncertainly. Olive giggled harder. "I mean, that was a howl, right?"

"Technically," Stiles grimaced. Olive, laughing, shook her head speechlessly.

"What did it sound like to you?" Scott asked.

"Like a cat being choked to death, Scott," Stiles sighed, and Olive laughed harder, almost collapsing in giggles.

"What do I do?" Scott panicked. "Stop _laughing_, Olive." She laughed harder, her entire body shaking as she giggled, a hand on her knee, one arm propping her up against the desk.

"I'm sorry," she choked, wiping her eyes, and shook with giggles. Trying to pull it together, she laughed silently, struggling to say, "I just flashed on Simba trying to roar in the elephant-graveyard. I've heard toddler werewolves howl scarier than that." She collapsed in laughter again as Scott panicked.

"How am I supposed to do this?"

"Okay, hey—listen to me," Stiles said urgently, side-stepping around Olive, who was choking on her laughter and wiping her eyes, her mood exponentially improved from her solitary dinner. "You're calling the Alpha. Alright." Gripping his best-friend's shoulders, Stiles tried to give him a confidence boost and a pep-talk at the same time. "Be a man. Be a werewolf. Not a teen-wolf. Be a werewolf."

"A werewolf," Scott mumbled to himself. Olive laughed silently, shaking her head and crossing her arms over her chest, watching, ankles crossed and perched against the desk, as Scott took a deep breath, sighed, and pressed the button on the intercom microphone.

A slow, deep roar started to fill the room; with the intercom on, it soon spread, louder and louder and more powerful, demanding, authoritative, and both Olive and Stiles put their hands over their ears because it was _so_ loud. Olive most of all; her hearing was as perfect as Scott's.

"Now _that_," she grinned, when Scott fell silent and the echoes faded, "_that_ was Mufasa." Stiles, grinning from ear to ear, put everything back into place on the desk and led the way back outside, where Derek was waiting with his customary scowl.

"I'm gonna kill you," he snapped, pointing at Scott and Stiles; Olive smiled, not included in the generalisation. "What the hell was that? What're you trying to do, attract the entire state to the school?"

"Sorry, I didn't know it'd be that loud," Scott said, smiling and a little breathless from excitement.

"Yeah, it was loud," Stiles grinned, and he sang, "And it was _awesome_."

"Shut up," Derek scowled.

"Don't be such a sour-wolf," Stiles said, and Olive chuckled.

"I thought you were supposed to be babysitting these two knuckleheads," Derek said, glancing at Olive as if he had expected better from her.

"She was too busy laughing her ass off at Scott's first attempt," Stiles said: Derek's lips twitched.

"What'd you do with him?" Scott asked suddenly, and Olive glanced at him; following his line of sight, she frowned into the backseat of Derek's car: it was empty.

"What?" Derek followed their gazes. Staring, wide-eyed, he blurted, "I didn't do anything."

It was then that Olive heard it. A low, steady growling. The Alpha had heard its sole Beta's call.

It was then that Derek's eyes suddenly popped, and he appeared to float two feet off the ground.

"Derek!" Olive shrieked, stricken, her heart in her mouth, as blood spurted from _his_ mouth. Darting forward, only someone tugging hard on her hand, dragging her back, made her stumble after Scott and Stiles up the steps to the front-doors; she briefly saw Derek fly twenty feet toward the solid redbrick wall, before crumpling on the ground at its base, motionless.

Stiles whirled Olive through the doorway before both boys grabbed a door and slammed it shut, leaning all their weight against it; stunned, for a second Olive had no clue what was going on. Then Scott shouted, "Lock it!" and she realised they were for it. They had trapped themselves in a _school_. Sitting ducks. With an _Alpha_ out to get one of their number to join his ranks. Derek was injured, and Stiles was the only one who wouldn't be able to heal if he got hurt.

* * *

**A.N.**: It's time for _Night School_. My version!


	8. Chapter 8

**A.N.**: _Night School_. My version! Putting Allison in her place!

* * *

**The Judgement of Actaeon**

_08_

* * *

"Lock it!" Scott shouted.

"Do I look like I have a key?!" Stiles shrieked back.

"Why are we trying to lock ourselves _in_ the school?" Olive said, clapping her hands for their attention. They both stared at her, still gripping the bars that opened the doors out. "We'll be sitting ducks!"

For a second, the boys remained quiet, then Scott panted, "Grab something!"

"What?" Stiles gasped, as Olive rolled her eyes; they weren't going to listen to her. Hiding inside here was better than being picked on one-by-one out there.

"Anything!" Scott shouted, and Stiles panted, eyes wild as he glanced around; Olive, sensing they wouldn't listen to her any time soon while they still believed the Alpha was waiting right outside to rip their heads off, glanced around for anything that might help. A fire-axe, even a fire-extinguisher could do some damage…like the oxygen-tank in the final confrontation with _Jaws_. She saw the bolt-cutters Stiles had left just inside the doors; picking them up, she handed them to Stiles, who wedged them down over both ends of the door-handles.

Pausing for breath, they all peered through the sliver windows. She couldn't see any sign of Derek; Stiles' Jeep was there, as was Derek's sleek black car, but no sign of Dr Deaton or Derek…or the Alpha…

"Oh my god, where is it?" Stiles panted.

"Where'd it go?" Scott murmured.

"Well, it has the entire _school_ to turn into a labyrinthine torture-maze," Olive said, sighing.

"What, you think we should just go out in the open?" Scott blurted, wide-eyed, and she shrugged; it was a better option than trapping themselves inside. Glancing at the bolt-cutters keeping the doors locked, Scott said, "That won't hold, will it?"

"Probably not," Stiles panted softly, and they all turned to gaze down the corridor. Olive frowned, watching; the locker-lined hall was an eerie dark blue, a light at the end of it, but as she gazed down it, the corridor seemed to shrink, to become shorter.

"What is this, _The_ _Shining_?" she murmured. Then, a howl rent through the air, sending all the fine hairs on her arms and the back of her neck on end. The boys started to pelt down the corridor.

"Wait, wait, wait!" she panted, skidding to a halt. "Hang on!"

"You need to get into your locker _now_!" Scott said indignantly, as Olive danced over to her locker, spinning the dial of her combination-lock. Pausing long enough to give Scott a disapproving frown, Olive searched through the contents, pushing textbooks out of the way.

"Inside my locker is my custom First Aid kit," she said, tugging out the sunflower-yellow box, shaking it so the contents rattled inside. She closed her locker quietly and locked it again. "Given this is an emergency with the potential to become incredibly much more dangerous and bloody and murderous, amputated limbs, etcetera, I really think some rubbing-alcohol and a sewing-kit might come in handy."

Stiles pounced at her, wrapping his arms around her and squeezing so tight he lifted her off her feet.

"What was that for?" Olive asked, bemused.

"You're such a girl, I love you," Stiles gasped, giving her another hug.

"What does being a girl have to do with anything?" Olive laughed. Finding humour in every situation was the true mark of bravery—at least, her mother had always said so. So all she had to do was keep a clear head, and be able to laugh in the face of danger and say, I don't care; you scare the shit out of me, but I'm not going to break because of it.

"Because girls have common-sense," Stiles said, grinning. "At least, you do, which is just one of the many reasons that I love having you as my friend." Olive chuckled, but Scott started running, and Stiles grabbed hold of her hand, forcing her to jog after him as they reached an open classroom.

"Help me move the desk!" Scott panted, and he and Stiles started shoving the desk, with a loud _screech_, against the floor.

"Stop! The door's not gonna keep it out!" Stiles said, and the boys stopped struggling. Olive glanced around; pausing to search through the contents of the First Aid kit to tug out the tiny LED flashlight inside. "It's your boss."

"What?" Scott blurted.

"Deaton?" Stiles scowled. "The Alpha. Your boss."

"No!"

"Yes! Murdering, psycho-werewolf!

"That can't be."

"Oh, come on. He disappears and that thing shows up ten seconds later to toss Derek twenty-feet through the air?" Stiles gasped. "That's not convenient timing?"

"For the Alpha, maybe," Olive said, frowning. Then her eyes widened. "Trying to make us think it's Dr Deaton—how do we know the Alpha didn't grab Dr Deaton just before he spinal-tapped Derek?" Scott paused, a shiver flashing across his face, eyes widening fearfully.

"I hope he's okay," he said softly. Olive saw him visibly swallow. "It's not Dr Deaton."

"He killed Derek," Stiles insisted.

"Derek's not dead—he, he can't be dead!" Scott blurted.

"Blood spurted out of his mouth, okay, that doesn't exactly qualify as a minor-injury," Stiles contradicted.

"He'll heal," Olive said calmly. "Trust me, werewolves can heal from a lot worse. He could've regenerated the arm we almost had to hack off. Derek will be fine. It's us we have to worry about—_you_, actually."

"Me?" Stiles stilled, eyes widening.

"You don't heal the way Scott and I do," Olive said concernedly, glancing at Scott. "Well, I don't…really heal as fast Scott does, but I still heal perfectly. So we've just got to get out of here without you getting hurt."

"What do we do?" Scott breathed.

"We get to my Jeep," Stiles said decisively. It was nice to know that in an emergency, even his Adderall-addled brain could function more accurately than Scott's. "We get out of here. You seriously consider quitting your job, good?" Scott nodded, not perhaps about quitting his job but agreeing to get out of the school, as Olive had _told_ them, but they strode over to the windows, trying to find a latch.

"They don't open, the school's climate-controlled," Stiles said regretfully.

"Then we break it."

"Which will make a lot of noise."

"Then…then we run really fast," Scott said, gazing out of the window toward the cars. "Really fast," he added, sighing. He frowned, glancing through the window toward the cars. "Hey, Stiles, what's wrong with the hood of your _Jeep_?"

"What d'you mean, nothing's wrong with it," Stiles frowned.

"It's bent," Scott frowned.

"Like dented?" Stiles and Olive approached the window, frowning into the dark parking-lot. Olive felt something slip inside her chest; something had torn up the front-corner of the _Jeep_ bonnet and folded it over as if they had dog-eared a page in a novel.

"No, I mean _bent_," Scott said, and Olive squinted; she could see five silver…silver scratches on the metal…claw-marks.

"What the hell happened to my _Jeep_?" Stiles blurted indignantly, and they all shouted in shock and fear as something smashed through the window above them, very loudly. Glass shattered, sprinkling all over the three of them as they ducked.

"Oh shit," Olive panted, gazing at the wired box that had collided with the floor and skidded to a halt some ten feet away from them.

"You can say that again," Scott said tremulously.

"Oh shit." Stiles shone his flashlight at the box; Olive turned on her tiny LED flashlight, and that sinking feeling inside of her grew.

"That's my _battery_," Stiles said. The Alpha had torn the battery out of Stiles' _Jeep_. Olive paused for breath, her heart hammering, and rested her head against the wall where she, Scott and Stiles were all cowered. The Alpha had scared them into the school and now had cut off their only escape. It could catch them on foot, no trouble; Derek's car was out of commission because the driver was; and the Jeep was the last mode of automotive transportation they had available.

"We have to move," Stiles declared.

"Hold on," Olive said quietly, using her toe to guide the First Aid kit toward her.

"Yeah, he could be right outside," Scott panted.

"He _is_ right outside," Stiles corrected. Opening the First Aid kit, Olive pulled out a little roll of tape.

"And I meant hold on, there's broken glass everywhere, Stiles," Olive said, before he could put his hand down to push himself off the ground. "Is anybody hurt?"

"No, I just…it might be in the collar of my jacket," Stiles said, going very still.

"Okay, just stay still for a little bit," Olive said, and tore off a length of tape, gripping it between her two fingers and thumbs.

"Tape?" Scott frowned.

"Picks up everything," Olive said, gently pressing the tape to the collar of Stiles' jacket and shirt. She showed Scott the glass she had picked up. "Including tiny particles of glass that can work their way under your skin."

"Smart," Stiles said, smiling warmly. "Hang on, you've got a few bits of glass in your hair." He took Olive's little LED flashlight and Olive tucked her chin down, letting Stiles carefully pick the pieces of glass out of her hair.

"Careful," she said quietly, hoping he didn't cut himself.

"Okay, I think you're good," Stiles said, shining the light on the shoulders of her jacket and the rest of her loose curls. "Scott, you okay?"

"Yeah, there's nothing," Scott said, running a hand through his hair and over his shoulders "—ow." He shot Olive a look that was half repentant, half amused, and tugged a small piece of glass out of his palm, as Stiles shuddered.

"Come on," he said, and offered Olive a hand off the floor; she squatted down to clip the box together, and tucked it under her arm.

"Move now?" Stiles asked, and Scott nodded.

"Yeah." They made a run for it, Olive keeping a tight hold on the rattling First Aid box.

"This way," Scott called, leading the way.

"No, no, no!" Stiles said, grabbing the back of Scott's jacket.

"What?"

"Somewhere without windows," Stiles panted.

"Every room in this building has windows!" Scott panted.

"The gym," Olive suggested. Stiles frowned thoughtfully.

"Or the locker-room," he said softly.

"Yeah," Scott agreed, nodding; they started running. And running; they clattered down corridors, hurtled up steps, slammed doors and Olive greatly appreciated being a _Converses_ girl, thoroughly appreciating having watched so much _Buffy_ as a twelve-year-old so that she now wasn't trying to run for her life in three-inch stilettos. They clattered down the hall, past Coach Finstock's darkened office, to the boys' locker-room—"Why the _boys'_—?" Olive blurted, as they hurtled inside.

"Call your dad," Scott whispered to Stiles.

"And tell him what?" Stiles half-laughed.

"Anything? There's a gas-leak, a fire, whatever," Scott panted. "If that thing sees the parking-lot flooded with cop-cars it'll take off."

"What if it doesn't?" Stiles blurted back. "What if it goes completely _Terminator_ and kills every cop in sight, including my dad?"

"They have guns."

"Yeah, and Derek had to be shot with a wolfsbane-laced bullet to even slow him down, you remember that?" Stiles asked indignantly.

"We have to…we have to find a way out and just run for it," Scott panted.

"There's nothing around the school for at least a mile," Stiles sighed.

"What about Derek's car?" Scott suggested softly, and Olive frowned; rummaging in her back-pocket, she drew out her cell-phone. Though he despised using it, especially in critical sound-sensitive situations, Derek did carry a pay-as-you-go cell-phone that he used mostly to check up on her.

"That could work," Stiles said softly. "We go outside, we get the keys off his body—" He shuddered, "—and then we take his car."

"And him," Scott added adamantly.

"Fine," Stiles shrugged. "Whatever… What're you doing?" He glanced at Olive as she held her phone to her ear; she had tried Derek's number, and though the phone was ringing, nobody picked up; Derek must still be healing.

"Just…" Scott gestured for them to follow him, toward the door back into the hall. "Quiet." Olive hung up the call, tucking her phone back into her pocket, and she and Stiles both glanced at Scott; except, she'd heard it, too. A door closing.

"What?" Stiles breathed.

"I think I heard something," Scott said softly. "Hide." They were in the middle of a boys' locker-room. Showers and smelly cubicles and lockers. Stiles darted for one of the lockers, tucking himself inside it. "No, Stiles! No." Olive followed suit, darting into the locker next to Stiles', and she heard the soft squeak of Scott opening and closing a locker.

_Sitting ducks, sitting ducks, sitting ducks_, she thought, holding her breath, as footsteps grew clearer, and someone opened the locker-room door. With all the clattering they had just been making, the smashing of the window, the noise her First Aid box made, her own freaking heartbeat, Olive was sure the Alpha would have absolutely no problem tracking them down. Trying not to breathe, not to let her heart beat too loudly, she waited, peeking through the slits in the locker-door and just hoping nothing red-eyed stared back.

It was a _human_. A person. One she recognised the scent of; the high-school janitor. Her heart sank; _Oh, crap_. One more expendable target for the Alpha to get rid of in its quest to get Scott into its pack. She watched, tense and expectant, heart hammering, as the janitor approached one of the lockers, frowning. When he opened it, and revealed Scott, he yelled out, terrified, clutching his heart.

"Argh!" he screamed again, when Olive and Stiles both burst out of their own lockers, trying to shut him up; the Alpha would be right on their tails. Literally.

"Shhh!" Stiles hissed.

"Quiet!" Olive begged; she didn't want this man to get hurt.

"Quiet my ass, what're you trying to do, kill me?!" the janitor blurted, clutching his heart. In a bad mood, he grimaced. "All of you, get out."

"Could you just listen to us for half a second, okay?" Stiles half-whispered.

"Not okay," the janitor said, at full-volume. "Get the hell out of here right now."

"Just one second to explain!" Stiles said, as the janitor bodily shoved them all out of the locker-rooms; Olive stumbled out after Stiles, Scott tripping over her feet, and they were all futilely telling the janitor to please _shut up_, but he didn't listen.

"Just shut up and go—" Olive screamed as something grabbed the janitor, slamming the locker-room door shut; through the dim light, _blood_ splashed against the door, and the sound of the Alpha tearing through the poor man's bones and flesh was one of the worst sounds Olive had ever heard, worse even than the man's screams of agony.

Diving for the door-handle, Olive and Stiles had to grab hold Scott, and use all of their strength to force him away from the door to the locker-room and to the door to the hall.

"Let's go," she cried, her eyes burning and cheeks stinging from tears that had been shocked out of her as the taste of sick tainted her mouth, her stomach churning as her legs shook. "Now!"

That _sound_, claws ripping through flesh and bone, the squelch of wet flesh against metal and stone, she couldn't get that sound out of her head, and hot tears burned her cheeks and obscured her vision as Stiles gripped her hand tight and they _ran_. They ran toward the closest exit they knew of—but the Alpha had predicted they would. They all bounced off of the double-doors that didn't budge an inch—bounced painfully. While the boys clutched their sides and arms where they'd taken the full impact, in a sudden and incredibly inopportune display of humour, Olive ricocheted off the doors and fell with a painful _smack_ onto the floor. And started laughing.

"You hit your head, didn't you," Stiles said sympathetically, as he hauled her off the floor by her waist. Olive wiped her cheeks of tears, too distracted by their present predicament to dwell on the janitor's violent mutilation just feet from them, separated only by a sheet of glass. Crying over him wouldn't stop the Alpha from doing it again, to them; and shouting at Scott or Stiles wouldn't help anyone; she had to laugh because bouncing off the doors the way they had was so _comical_. And what else was she supposed to do in this situation; her body was running on adrenaline, which was pushing through the shock trying to cloud her mind.

"_Ow_," Scott panted, hopping on one foot as he rubbed his knee.

"What the hell?" Stiles said, pushing the door open as far as it would go. Scott stuck his head between the doors.

"It's a dumpster," he panted. "He pushed it in front of the door to lock us in."

"Come on. Help me!" Stiles said, trying with all his might to shove the doors open.

"Stop!" Scott shouted, the sound echoing as he hauled Stiles away from the door by his waist. Olive followed, Stiles latching onto her hand as they stalked down another empty, blocked-off corridor, sided by lockers, classroom-doors and fifty feet of windows.

"I'm not dying here!" Stiles blurted angrily. "I'm not dying in school."

"We're not going to die," Scott assured him, as they stalked far faster than they needed to; they had nowhere to go and all the time in the world to get slaughtered by an insane but highly-motivated werewolf Alpha.

"What is it doing?" Stiles blurted, the sound echoing. "What does it want?"

"Me!" Scott exclaimed. "Derek says that the Alpha is stronger in a pack."

"Great. A psychotic werewolf who's into teamwork," Stiles said sardonically. "That's…that's beautiful."

"You know, I know high-school is supposed to be Hell, but this is ridiculous," Olive panted, a stitch in her side, her cheeks itchy from the tears, the First Aid box rattling under her arm. "The monsters are supposed to be roided-up jocks and Mean Girls and math teachers."

"Maybe it's Mr Harris," Stiles sighed, not at all being serious. They all knew Mr Harris had a particular hatred of Stiles, for whatever reason; perhaps because Stiles could easily have been one of the brightest students in his class, but his ADHD and Mr Harris' utterly _dour_ personality and unenthusiastic and uninspiring teaching-methods prevented him from embracing his future as a professor-turned-super-villain in a Chem. Lab experiment gone wrong.

Scott paused, putting his arms out so Olive and Stiles both bounced off them, frowning at him; he was gazing out of the window, frowning thoughtfully, and his eyes widened; Olive followed his gaze, and saw, on the far roof, half-hidden by the Ceramics-class kiln chimneys, the Alpha. A red-eyed wolf the size of a small elephant. With a growl, chuffing breaths through razor-sharp fangs that could snap bones in a second, it bunched up before launching itself around the roof.

Catching hold of each other, starting to tug each other the way they had come, they all started to run as fast as they could; with an enormous _CRASH_, Olive could feel the glass and wood splintering after them, glad they weren't within range of the debris as the Alpha howled and snarled, ricocheting off the lockers, leaving a huge dent in five of them, before hurtling after them. Scott swung a surprise right that had Olive skidding to backtrack, hurtling after the boys as they raced down a stairwell; Olive hopped over the banister, landing perfectly on her toes at the foot of the stairs as Stiles clattered down after her, eyes wide, surprised she had beat them; they held hands and legged it through the double-doors, coming out into the basement, full of utility-rooms, steam-pipes, air-conditioning ducts and storage-cages.

Steam, pipes that rattled at odd times, they hid behind ancient old lockers, holding their breath, trying not to let their hearts pump too much blood through their bodies. Olive glanced at Stiles, who glanced at Scott, who was peeking around the corner to check on the Alpha's whereabouts.

"Go," he mouthed, and Olive peeked around the other end of the lockers before silently hopping out, past a steam-billowing pipe, jumping and spinning around as something growled behind them; scanning the shadows, Olive's heart was thundering, blood rushing past her ears, and she had a sudden wish that Mo was here. Squeezing her eyes shut, she clawed her fingernails over her chest, trying to get at the muscle that was seizing painfully.

"Alright, we have to do something," Stiles panted.

"What?" Scott frowned.

"Kill it; hurt it," Stiles suggested frantically. "Inflict mental-anguish on it? Something." As the Alpha growled and roared out of sight, they all shuddered, eyeing the shadows, trying to control their breathing, but Olive knew it was futile; the Alpha could hear every terrified, frantic beat of their hearts as if they were a bass-drum. Eyeing the metal door to a storage-room, another roar had Stiles digging into his pocket for something that jingled softly.

"What're you—"

"Shh!" Stiles hissed breathlessly, trying to take his keys out as quietly as possible. Tossing them into the room, Stiles dived out of the way, getting them out of sight as the Alpha came tearing through, roaring; following the sound, the Alpha leapt into the room; Stiles dived for the door, and bodily slammed it shut. Olive beamed at him, her brave, wonderfully weird Stiles.

"Get the desk!" Stiles panted, and Olive laid the First Aid kit on the old desk shoved up against the wall, having no other home, trying to push it. "Come on, the desk!" Scott helped her, spinning the desk perpendicular to the door so that opening the door would cause the desk to jam into several ancient lockers, thus blockading the Alpha inside.

"Okay, now let's _go_," Olive said, heart hammering in her throat.

"Come on, get across," Stiles said, and Olive used her arms to propel herself over the desk, landing on both feet, sweeping up her First Aid box.

"What?" Scott breathed.

"Get your leg over, Scott," Olive frowned, already halfway down the corridor to the stairs, waving frantically to Stiles to follow her, "it shouldn't be too difficult for you by now." By which she meant getting a leg over with Allison at every opportunity was probably now his favourite hobby.

"What're you doing?" Scott hissed, as Stiles climbed _onto _the desk.

"I just wanna get a look at it."

"Look, it's trapped, okay. It's not—"

"_Don't_ say it. Any time someone says _that_, it happens. Come _on_. Let's just _go_. We're leaving, now!" Olive snapped loudly, and Stiles stared at her, eyes wide, before jumping off the desk and coming to heel like a misbehaving puppy. As she took a step, the screaming sound of metal being pierced and bent rent the air, with several crashes, the sound of glass breaking, hollow clinks of fallen pipes, the spray of water, and Olive glanced at Stiles.

"I didn't say it!"

"But you were _thinking it_!" she said, and Stiles grabbed hold of her hand before she pelted toward the stairs, past the steam-pipe, hurtling around, through the doors, up the staircase, back to the corridor they had fled from earlier. Scott suddenly jerked them to a stop.

"What are you—?"

"Wait, d'you hear that?" he panted, and Olive straightened up. Training her hearing, she honed in on the sound…the most annoying ringtone, set far too loudly on someone's cell-phone.

"Hear what?" Stiles panted.

"It sounds like a phone ringing," Scott said.

"_What_?" Stiles blurted.

"I know that ring!" Scott suddenly gasped. He turned wide, worried eyes onto Olive. "It's Allison's phone."

"Or someone who has the same exact ringtone that every single phone like hers comes with," Olive pointed out impatiently, tugging on Scott. "Come _on_." She wanted to get out of here. She wanted to get away from the steam-tunnels, the mutilated janitor; she wanted to go home and hide under her feather duvet and not come out for a _very_ long time.

"What's Derek's ring?" Scott asked.

"He doesn't keep it on ring," Olive said, frowning.

"Let me see your phone," Scott said to Stiles. Clenching her jaw, Olive glared at Scott as they paused in the stairwell—a stairwell made of nothing more than painted cinderblocks and a brushed railing. The light of Stiles' phone illuminated the closed anteroom, shadowing Stiles' cheekbones and the shadow of Scott's nose, and she paused, resting her head against the corner of the wall, eyes closed, trying to control her heartbeat, trying not to remember the sound of bones being rent in two, that annoying ringtone in the bowels of the school.

"Maybe someone left their cell-phone at school and they're trying to find it," Olive panted, chest rising and falling quickly; Stiles' hand wrapped around hers, she opened her eyes to find Scott with Stiles' phone pressed to his ear; his own phone having been smashed by Derek, Allison didn't expect to hear Scott's voice when she answered.

"_Stiles_?"

"No, it's me, where are you?" Scott asked urgently.

"_I'm in the school, looking for you, why weren't you at my place_?" Stiles' eyes popped, and Olive sighed, shaking her head, _Of course this is happening_, she panted, annoyed, and scowled at Scott.

"Where are you right now?" Scott asked.

"_On the first floor_," Allison said.

"WHERE?" Scott shouted impatiently. "Where are you exactly?"

"_The swimming-pools_," Allison replied bemusedly. And Olive shook her head, disbelieving.

"What the _hell_ is your stupid little girlfriend doing here?" she hissed. Stupid little daddy's-girl girlfriend with her sociopathic homicidal aunt, trigger-happy Hunter-father and those stupid homemade cookies in the packed-lunch her _mommy_ made every day…

"Get to the lobby," Scott ordered. "Go now!"

"_Okay, okay, I'm coming!_"

"What's she _doing_ here?" Olive demanded. "This is perfect!"

"As if we don't already have enough to worry about!" Stiles panted, frowning at Scott.

"If she starts in on why you forgot you had a date, I'm gonna—" Olive mimicked grabbing hold of something with her teeth, growling and shaking her head like a dog.

"Olive, that's the most aggressive thing I've ever seen you mime," Stiles said approvingly.

"You don't like Allison?" Scott paused, staring at Olive, whose eyes popped in disbelief.

"Can we _not_ have this conversation right now, while a psychotic murderous werewolf is trying to turn us into chew-toys?" she snapped. "_Prioritise_!"

She whacked him upside the back of the head, glancing at Stiles and daring him to say something as idiotic. He raised his hands defensively, grabbed one of hers and darted up the stairs. Their hurried footsteps echoed in the deserted halls, making their familiar way toward the front lobby, the trophy-cases illuminated and glittering, stairs leading up and down and everywhere in between, doors leading off, out. They burst into the lobby, breathless and clutching cramps in their sides, panicked and disbelieving that there she stood, all shiny fake curls and pale skin illuminated by a small flashlight, that _pendant_ shining on her breast as she gazed doe-eyed at them.

"What're you doing here?" Scott demanded worriedly. "Why did you come?"

"Because you asked me to," Allison said dubiously.

"I asked you to?" Scott repeated, perplexed, and glanced at Stiles, then Olive.

"Well, that's interesting—considering you know Scott doesn't have a _cell-phone_," Olive said, frowning, hands on her knees, her First Aid box tucked under her arm, trying to catch her breath.

"Why do I get the feeling you didn't send this message?" Allison asked, glancing from Olive to her phone to Scott.

"Is she paying attention at all?" Olive asked, gesturing at her as she glanced at Stiles.

"I didn't send that," Scott said, looking at the illuminated screen of Allison's phone.

"Did you drive here?" Stiles asked urgently.

"Jackson did," Allison replied, and Olive glanced up, eyes wide.

"_Jackson's_ here too?" they all blurted, one angrily, one indignantly, one rolling her eyes and dropping her head. _Of course he's here too…_

"And Lydia—what's going on?" Allison demanded, starting to sound angry. "Who sent this text?"

"How the hell should _we _know?" Olive half-shouted, straightening up. Allison's phone rang, the tone unusually loud, and Olive winced; Allison picked up the call.

"Hello? Where are you?" Stiles jumped, and Olive grabbed hold of his hand, ready to tug him behind her, as the double-doors from the hall opened. After a slight aneurysm, her head caught up with her senses and she acknowledged that it was Jackson with Lydia striding through the doors.

"Finally," Lydia exclaimed. "Can we go now?"

"Hermione's sharp, let's go with her idea," Olive said, snapping her fingers at Lydia, who smiled jauntily.

Something banged above them. Olive tightened her hold on Stiles' hand, and she edged away toward the stairs as she glanced up, the same as everyone else, watching…the ceiling-tiles…_dent_ and bow, something creaking ominously, a low, soft growl getting stronger and louder.

"What the…" Jackson murmured.

"I think now would be the opportune moment to vacate the premises," Olive said quickly, tugging on Stiles' hand as she whirled toward the stairs. She wasn't going to wait around for the Alpha to drop in amongst them and slice their heads off with one swipe of his lethal claws.

"Run!" Scott shouted behind her. Too late; the ceiling caved in, something enormous and furry and with glowing red eyes dropping with the debris and half a century's worth of dust.

"What the hell is that thing?" Lydia shrieked at the top of her lungs, cutting straight to Olive's ears.

"Just keep running!" Stiles shouted, as they mounted the top step and burst through the doors into a long corridor. Straight into the cafeteria, everyone ran as fast as they could, glancing over their shoulders to check their pursuer's position, Lydia screaming, Jackson yelling, Allison panting inanely about _who_ was following them as Jackson shouted it was some kind of enormous animal. Flinging themselves into the cafeteria, Olive's heart slipped as she gazed around, taking in the enormous thirty-foot-long, twenty-feet-high wall of windows.

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**A.N.**: I know it's been ages since I updated, so I thought I'd treat you! Reviews will ensure a speedy update for the second part of the _Night School _story-arc.


	9. Chapter 9

**A.N.**: Thank you for the reviews from chapter eight, I appreciate them. Please tell me what you think of this chapter.

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**The Judgement of Actaeon**

_09_

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"Help me get this in front of the doors!" Scott shouted to Jackson, who helped shove a _Milk_ fridge in front of the second set of double-doors that closed off the cafeteria.

"Scott, wait, not here," Stiles said, like Olive, checking out the windows.

"What was that?" Allison shouted, panicked. "Scott? What was that?"

"What the hell kind of a monster was that that came through the ceiling?" Lydia asked, wide-eyed and fearful.

"Just _help me_—the chairs," Scott shouted, "stack the chairs." The girls darted to help, Lydia wide-eyed, Allison flicking her hair and dancing on the balls of her feet, it made Olive dizzy to watch her.

"Guys!" she called.

"Could we just wait a second?" Stiles called, over the noise of the scraping freezers, the clanging of the chairs. "You guys, just listen to me—can we wait a second? Guys?" Stiles sighed, glancing at Olive, looking as annoyed and miserable about being ignored as he probably felt. "Stiles…talking. Can we hang on one second, please."

"_STOP_!" Olive shouted at the top of her lungs, and everyone froze, panting, Allison still doing that annoying jig, Lydia's hands shaking, Jackson working his jaw, trying not to look scared.

"Okay, nice work," Stiles said lightly, his words laced with irony. "Really beautiful job, everyone. Now, what shall we do about the twenty-foot wall of windows?" He gestured to the wall, and the others' faces fell.

"Could somebody please explain to me what's going on because I'm freaking out here!" Allison panicked.

Frowning, wondering why on earth she'd come here in the first place, Olive said calmly, and very annoyed, "And that's extremely helpful, thank you."

"Olive," Scott said warningly.

"I would like to know why I'm freaking out!" Allison stammered fearfully, glittery-eyed.

"Did you not _see_ that monster chasing us down the hall?" Lydia half-whispered.

"Hairy quadruped…" Olive said. She snapped her fingers and rolled her eyes, her head dropping on a sigh. "Oh god, this is _just_ like in the beginning of _28 Days Later_."

"How can you be so calm about this?" Allison shouted, sounding terrified. "We don't even know what's going on."

"Well, you've got whimpering in fear and screaming for answers nobody has to give covered, so…" Olive said sardonically, blinking quickly, because this just didn't sound like her; if anybody, it sounded like Stiles. He was beginning to rub off. Allison balked, her expression becoming cool, her cheekbones and the hinge of her jaw popping.

Olive sighed and pulled her phone out of her back pocket, glad it was still pristine. The screen glowing, showing a photograph of her with her friends in Arizona in the bed of Matt's truck, sipping _Izze_ fruit-sodas and grinning in a glorious sunset, and she had the overwhelming urge to just call up cornflower-eyed Jake, the wise young Beta whom she would have done anything for and would always come when she needed him. But he was so far away, now. She bit her lip and tapped at her contact-list.

"What're you doing?" Scott asked.

"Calling Derek," she answered quietly, after a moment's silence, thinking.

"Derek?" Jackson frowned, and Olive glanced up at him. "I thought…" Olive frowned.

"You thought what?"

"I thought I saw…him out in the hall, but it wasn't…" Jackson frowned bemusedly, blinking several times very quickly. Lowering her phone, Olive stared at Jackson.

"You saw something?" she said softly, gazing at him.

"When Lydia stopped to use the restroom. It was just…this shadow, at the end of the hall…" Jackson said, eyeing her uncertainly. "It looked like…like something out of _Underworld_, I don't know."

"Please tell me Bill Nighy's coming here to go Death Dealer on this monster's ass!" Olive gasped, and Stiles suddenly chuckled.

"You have the _oddest_ taste in men. Jeff Bridges, Liam Neeson, Mads Mikkelsen—"

"Don't forget Jeremy Irons. And I'm not the one having dreams about marrying an Oompa Loompa," Olive reminded him, and for a second, the others laughed; she was glad. They shouldn't have to feel terrified, or at least as not as terrified as they were; they didn't know what the Alpha was capable of, or what it even was, and they shouldn't have even been here in the first place. Who had sent that text to Allison?

"In my defence, it was a _female_ Oompa Loompa," Stiles said, and Olive smiled. She connected the call to Derek's phone and listened to it ring.

"Pick up…pick up—oh, thank God!" Someone connected the call.

Relief washed over her as Derek's stern, no-nonsense voice sounded on the other end of the line. "_Where are you_?"

"The Brain-dead Lacrosse Team barricaded us in the cafeteria," Olive said, glancing at Scott and Jackson, who rolled his eyes.

"_That has a twenty-foot wall of glass_," Derek half-growled."_Very _breakable_ glass_."

"Yes, I'm aware of that, thank you," Olive said. "Where are you? Are you okay?" she added quietly.

"_I'm…out of harm's way_," Derek said quietly. "_I'm still healing_."

"Well… Somebody killed the janitor," Olive mumbled, and she could feel the tension radiating from Derek through the phone-connection.

"What? Wait, this is some kind of a joke?" Allison half-laughed, a mix of bitterness and terror.

"What, who killed him?"

"No, no, no, no, no, this was supposed to be over," Lydia said tearfully, clinging to Jackson. "The mountain-lion killed—"

"Don't you get it? There wasn't a mountain-lion," Jackson said.

"That thing…that thing that I saw at…at the video-store…" Lydia panted softly, her eyes becoming wider and more terrified. In no more than a terrified squeak, teary-eyed, she said, "That's what's outside."

Glancing from Olive to Scott, Stiles said sombrely, "Yes."

"Who was it? What does he want?" Allison shouted desperately, doing that jig again that was really starting to get on Olive's nerves as she tried to plug her ear with her finger. "What is happening? SCOTT."

"_Would_—_you_—_shut_—_up_, please," Olive shouted, "You're driving me round the bend." Blocking her ear, she turned her attention to the phone, saying grumpily, "You see what we're dealing with here?"

"_Whose voices did I just hear_?" Derek asked.

"Well, Stiles' battery has been ripped out of his car, and someone sent a text to Allison's phone—"

"_What_?" Derek asked, first sounding angry, then confused.

"So now she's here with Lydia and Jackson," Olive said, watching Lydia worriedly; maybe she hadn't totally convinced herself that it had been a mountain-lion at the video-store. Maybe she did know, subconsciously, that it had been a red-eyed monster from nightmares. Her eyes sliding onto tearful Allison, she said tersely, "It's a real _treat_ for us all. Just, um… Can you go to the station?"

"_You want me to go to the sheriff's station?_" Derek said, half-indignantly, a little bit more than a _tad_ exasperated."_After Scott and Stiles made me the first suspect for Laura's murder_."

"Get your hairy ass over to the station NOW or so help me—I will haunt you!" Olive threatened. "Ectoplasm, Derek. Drag-you-down-to-the-cellar-and-scalp-you kind of haunting."

"Have you been watching _Supernatural_?" Stiles asked, frowning, as he glanced at her. His eyes widened. "Without me?"

"You scream too loudly," Olive said, with a subtle wink.

"_Can we focus please_?" Derek snapped. "_What if they don't believe me_?"

"Well…then I've got a back-up plan," Olive said, making it up but hoping she'd come up with something. "With your winning personality, incomprehensible double-talk and mega-watt smile, I'm sure you can charm them into believing you, Derek."

"_Your sarcasm is not appreciated_."

"It's Stiles; I think he's beginning to rub off," Olive said, sliding a glance at Stiles, who gave her a goofy, jaunty smile. "I hate to say it, but maybe we should let _her_ call—"

"_No_," Derek interrupted coldly, knowing where her thoughts were going. "_They get here, they'll just come here guns blazing, put a bullet in my head, and Scott's head, and anybody else they think might be involved_."

"True, they have no sympathy for collateral damage," she said sadly. "Just…tell Stiles' dad. Say whatever you need to, but get him to send a few squad-cars over." Catching the look on Stiles' face, she added in barely more than a mumble, "And…if possible…stay with him. Don't let him get hurt. Please." A sigh sounded on the other end of the line.

"_Fine_," Derek agreed.

"Yeah, tell my dad—who's the sheriff, by the way—" Stiles interjected, grabbing hold of Olive's wrist so he could talk into the phone, "—that Olive's the one who said something was wrong."

Olive could hear Derek's response, sounding a little dubious, "_And he'll trust your word_?"

"He'll trust Olive's more than if you go in there telling him it was me who said we're being held hostage in the school by some kind of monster," Stiles put in. Olive frowned and leaned away from him, taking her wrist and her phone back.

"Just go now, quickly, please," she said. "Thank you, thank you, I love you, I love you, I love you; I'll have your first litter; I'll cook you steak-dinner every day for a week, any dessert of your choice!" Olive sighed, relief flooding her body. "Except tofu. And vegan. I won't indulge any of that nonsense."

"_Right, I'm turning vegan_," Derek said drily, panting. "_Just get everybody out, alive_."

"Really?" she grumbled. Eyeing teary-eyed Allison, she said grumpily, "This whiny herd could use a little thinning."

"_Olive_," Derek warned, sounding amused; it wasn't often anybody really got to Olive the way Allison was right now fraying her nerves like a parmesan-grater.

"Fine," she pouted.

"_Keep your phone on you, but set it to silent_," Derek ordered. "_It'll light up when I call, you'll be able to see it in the dark_. _Just try and call the cops, maybe it'll help having you phone in while I'm trying to convince them you're in trouble_."

"Okay," Olive said. "Be careful."

"_You too_," Derek said quietly, his tone changing, showing the rare side of Derek that few people saw, the warm, concerned side. They both hung up, Olive turning her ring to silent, keeping hold of her phone in one hand and tucking her First Aid box under the same arm.

"Well, is he coming to help or not?" Jackson demanded. Olive frowned at his tone.

"_No_, he's going to _get_ help," she said.

"This is ridiculous," Jackson said tersely. "What the hell is going on, McCall?"

"If he knew we wouldn't be in this mess!" Olive frowned, being completely honest, actually, because none of them had any idea who the Alpha was.

"All we know is that whatever it is that's out there, it's already killed the janitor," Scott said. "And unless we can all get out safely, it's gonna kill all of us." Not all; Olive knew if the Alpha had wanted them all dead, they'd be going cold already. _But why text Allison to come here?_ she wondered again.

"Call the cops," Jackson ordered.

"No." This came from Stiles, who glanced at Olive. He had given her an appreciative look when she'd asked Derek to shadow Sheriff Stilinski and not let him get hurt, but he was still allowed to worry that it wouldn't work, that Derek would have to stay at the station or that he wouldn't get there at all, that their call would be what brought the cops to the school, without Derek's protection to save the Sheriff's life if the Alpha decided to kill everyone it could get its claws through.

"What do you mean, no?" Jackson scowled.

"I mean _no_. You wanna hear it in Spanish? _No_!" Stiles mocked angrily. "Look, whatever it is already killed the janitor, it probably had something to do with those other murders—you—" Stiles glanced at Jackson, eyes widening as realisation seemed to hit him. "You've seen it before."

"What?" Jackson snapped tersely. Stiles stared at Jackson.

"You did. That night, you saw something… No wonder you were wigged," he said softly. "So you get what we're up against here. But the cops won't, okay."

"Your dad is armed with an entire sheriff's department, call him!" Jackson ordered angrily.

"I'm calling!" Lydia declared, pulling out her cell-phone. Olive, frowning as she watched Lydia tap at the touch-screen, thought hard. They had to get enough people to the school to scare the Alpha away—not truly _scare_ him away, but think better of revealing himself in front of a tonne of witnesses. A greater number of witnesses than Derek could intimidate into forgetting, protecting the Alpha's secret, even Derek's existence in Beacon Hills.

"—yes, we're at Beacon Hills high-school!" Lydia said frantically. "We're trapped and we need you to—" She fell silent with a gasp, gaping. "—But!—" She lowered her phone, shocked. "She hung up on me."

"The police hung up on you?" Allison said disbelievingly, and Olive sighed, glancing upwards. As she glanced quickly back at Lydia, stunned, not sure she had heard properly, something ticked, an idea, _Light-bulb!_ she thought, smiling as she remembered _Despicable Me_!_…_and as Lydia said, "She said they got a tip _warning_ them that they're were gonna be prank-calls about a break-in at the high-school! She said that if I called again that they were gonna trace it and have me arrested."

"Then _call again_!" Allison demanded icily.

"No, they won't trace a cell. And they'll send a car to your house before they send anyone here," Stiles said calmly.

"What the—what?—what is this?" Allison stammered, running her hands through her hair, hiding her face in the studded cuffs of her jacket-sleeves. "Why does this freak wanna kill us? Why is he killing _anyone_?"

"Why don't you go outside and _ask him_?" Olive asked sweetly.

"You think he'd stop to talk to me? You said he's killed the janitor!" Allison cried. "He'd probably kill me!"

"True, and then you won't annoy me nearly as much," Olive said, deadpan. Scott reached out and whacked Olive around the back of the head.

"Hey, don't smack her!" Stiles scowled. "She's the only one here keeping a good head on her shoulders."

"It's not my fault your girlfriend's being a _profound_ idiot," Olive said coolly.

"Is this guy the one who sent Allison the text?" Lydia asked suddenly, wide-eyed. "To lure us here?" The three—Jackson, Lydia, Allison—turned to stare inquisitively at Scott.

"I don't know!" he said, blinking quickly.

"Is he the one that called the police?" Allison demanded of him.

"_I DON'T KNOW_!"

Her lips pursing, Allison's eyes suddenly became icy, closed-off, accusing, and her eyes glittered as she curled towards Lydia, who cast Scott a glance that said a lot.

"_Can—everyone—just—shut—up_!" Olive shrieked. The noise, the persistent questions, Allison's doe-eyed wounded jutting lower-lip, they were doing her head in, she couldn't _think_ straight, and all the while the Alpha was outside, probably examining its claws, listening to every word of their conversation, waiting.

When Olive shrieked, it wasn't a sound of nature. The natural world, rather. Humans where her ancestors had come from had spun tales of the origins of her species, turned them into fabled daughters of gods amongst battlefields, swan-maidens… Her shriek was a thing of comfort to creatures of her kind, as much a call amongst them as was a howl was amongst werewolves. But it was damn loud and could shatter glass if she went loud enough. Not—not _really_ wanting to shatter the humans' ear-drums, she tamped it down, enough that everyone could tell just how annoyed she was getting. Absolute silence greeted her, Lydia's hands over her ears, Stiles a little stunned.

She took a deep breath and sighed. Sneering impatiently at Allison, she said coolly, "When you've finished playing the wounded girlfriend being snapped at for asking stupid questions, maybe you could actually start thinking of ways to _help_."

"Like you're doing?" Allison snarled back coolly. Olive lit a match so suddenly, everyone jumped at the tiny flare of fire.

"Actually, yes." She indicated the doors at the other end of the cafeteria, which led to the kitchen. There were more ways than one to attract the attention of emergency-response teams.

"The stairwell only goes up," Scott said, but Olive gave him a _look_, one she had rarely used amongst friends or Allison in Beacon Hills; it was the patented look her friends knew precluded a pretty awesome shouting match that sent her opponents cowering for cover. Olive had a _very_ long fuse, but when it finally reached the powder, she went off like a nuclear-bomb.

She strode down the corridor, hearing soft but hurried footsteps just behind her; the familiar scent of Stiles wafted gently to her, and she smiled, glad she had one ally who would follow her lead without question. Blind faith.

"Out is better than here," Stiles called, and Olive glanced over her shoulder as she heard it; the Alpha was trying to get through the blockaded doors. Screeching metal, rattling door-hinges, shattering glass, the bangs of the stacked chairs squeaking and scraping against the cabinet, banging into the ground.

"Okay, this is really starting to feel like _28 Days Later_, thank you," Allison said angrily, as she and the others ran after her and Stiles.

"Don't worry, I'm sure if you become infected with rage, Daddy'll put a _Beretta_ to your temple and put you out of your misery," Olive said coolly. It probably wasn't fair for her to take her hatred of Allison's aunt out on Allison when she didn't know anything about that side of her family's life, but considering the way she'd been acting she could see _why_ her family hadn't put her through Hunter training, and she was seriously pissing Olive off, deciding _now_ was the perfect time to pout and cry over Scott shouting at her.

"If you've got something against my father, please just say it," Allison hissed, as they ran through the kitchen. Olive darted out of the way of the door, shepherding everyone through it before her.

"He wielded a gun in a parking-lot full of people. And he shot a mountain-lion that was probably just _hungry_," she snapped back. She glanced at the ovens, but with the chairs being knocked off the freezer in the cafeteria, she didn't have time.

"It was stalking the parking-lot," Allison scowled.

"So? Bunch of idiots started screaming, probably freaked it out, all the lights from the cars…no wonder it got spooked," Olive snapped angrily. She had seen cougars and even bears in the woods on her walks: if you didn't spook them, or threaten their young, they didn't attack you. "It didn't hurt anyone…" She brought the door to after her, catching sight of something little and rectangular on the wall just beside the door. Softly, she said, "Spooked."

"What're you doing?" Stiles called, sounding like his heart was in his throat as he stared down at her.

Olive frowned, eyed the little Fire alarm, and glancing at her First Aid box, she smiled. "_This_." She smashed the glass using her First Aid box, the alarm going off so instantaneously and _loudly_ that everyone jumped; "Run! For god's sake!" Everyone started clattering up the stairs, Olive following.

"Goes straight to the fire-department!" Stiles called. "That's brilliant! Glad I have one non-idiot with me!"

Olive laughed, the first time since Scott's Simba-roar, and she paused only to smash each and every alarm on her way up as they continued to run. When whoever was in front had tired of climbing, they led the way out into a corridor lined with lockers. Stiles seemed to have the presence of mind despite running and Allison screaming and Lydia crying to pull on the fire-alarms in the corridor. Wedging a classroom-door open with his foot, Jackson grabbed hold of Olive's hand and tugged her into the classroom before slamming the door shut and locking it. Scott quickly dragged a chair over to jam under the door-handle, and everyone fell silent; Olive, eyes closed, ears ringing, leaned her head against the cool tile of the wall and caught her breath, trying to calm her heartbeat, to stop panting.

A soft growl and heavy footsteps echoed in the corridor outside, the Alpha pausing just long enough that Olive knew he knew _exactly_ where they were, and was choosing not to come in and slaughter them all viciously, and he was gone. The alarms were still ringing, though.

"Jackson, how many can you fit in your car?" Scott asked, panting.

"Five, if someone squeezes in someone's lap," Jackson panted.

"Five! I _barely_ fit in the back!" Allison whispered harshly.

"We'll shove you in the glove-compartment; I'll go in the trunk," Olive said, giving Allison a cool look, "Lydia can go on Stiles' lap in the backseat." Stiles scoffed with amusement, then giggled outright; Jackson's lips twitched, and Lydia gave Stiles a thoroughly unimpressed look.

"It doesn't matter, anyway, there's no way of getting out without drawing attention," Stiles said.

"Well…the fire-department should hopefully be on their way," Olive said, stretching her legs carefully.

"What about this?" Scott asked, glancing around, and he strode over to the Emergencies Only door at the other end of the chalkboard. "This leads to the roof. We can go down the fire-escape down to the parking-lot in like seconds." The parking-lot…with Derek's car probably still in the lot; she peeked out of the window and saw that his car _was_ still indeed parked out front by Stiles' now useless _Jeep_, Jackson's sleek _Porsche_ parked nearby… Even if they got there, Olive thought, if Derek had taken his car-keys with him, they were screwed.

"That's a deadbolt," Stiles said, sighing heavily. They exchanged a look.

"The janitor has a key," Scott said softly.

"You mean his _body_ has it," Stiles corrected, shivering.

"I can get it. I can find him by scent, by blood," Scott breathed.

"Well, gee, that seems like an incredibly terrible idea," Stiles said. "What else have you got?" Scott glanced at Olive, who shrugged; the fire-alarms were still ringing, and that might help; the noise was reverberating through the entire school, distorting audio perception.

"I'm getting the key," Scott said softly.

"Are you serious?" Allison gaped.

"It's the best plan," Scott said simply. "Someone has to get the key if we wanna get out of here."

"You can't go out there unarmed," Allison said.

"Well, unless your dad gets you to keep a KA-BAR attached to your belt, or even a tiny switchblade in your sock, we're not exactly packing heat," Olive said impatiently. Scott sighed, and grabbed the pointer Harris…used for his diagrams. Olive glanced around; she hadn't realised they were in the Chemistry Lab, too focused on clutching her First Aid box and wondering if Scott would let her go out and find the key. When she wanted to, she could be _very_ light on her feet. All thanks to her mother's genealogy, and those Vikings who had written eddas about her ancestors' beauty.

They all glanced at Scott, pulling faces at his choice of 'weapon'. Not that Scott needed it—well, not that even he could do much against the Alpha even if he had the chance to—but they couldn't just come out and say that, well, since Scott was supernaturally strong and healed almost instantly, he didn't actually need a weapon. Because he had claws. And fangs. And fur. Kinda like the thing that was hunting them. Funny, that.

"It's better than nothing," Scott said defensively.

"There's gotta be something else," Stiles said.

"There is," Lydia said, with a smile. She nodded at the cabinet full of bottles of chemicals that Mr Harris locked up securely at the end of each lab.

"What're we gonna do, throw acid on him?" Stiles blurted, gaping.

"No. Like a firebomb," Lydia said confidently. "In there's everything you need to make a self-igniting Molotov cocktail." Olive raised her eyebrows, glancing at Lydia. She knew wasn't the idiot she pretended to be; but she knew how to make a firebomb _from memory_?

"Self-igniting…" Stiles said, staring at Lydia.

"Molotov-cocktail," Lydia enunciated, and Jackson mumbled the same words, stunned.

"Like on _CSI_," Olive smiled. "Lydia Martin. You are _way_ too good for your dumb-jock boyfriend." She glanced at Jackson, whose grades she knew were perfect, and raised her hands up. "No offence."

"We don't have a key for that either," Stiles sighed, gesturing to the cabinet full of chemicals. Olive glanced down at her First Aid box. What was another bash through solid glass?

"How come the fire-department hasn't shown up yet?" Allison asked, frowning, as she stood in front of the window, gazing down into the parking-lot.

"How the hell should we know?" Stiles asked, watching, fascinated, as Lydia put together a self-igniting Molotov cocktail.

"Jackson, hand me the sulphuric acid," Lydia said, and as Olive watched, Jackson wavered between two bottles, uncertain. With her eyesight, Olive could read the labels, and as Jackson made to pass Lydia the wrong one, she caught his wrist.

"The _other_ sulphuric acid," she said gently, indicating the other bottle; Jackson worked his jaw, but glanced into Olive's eyes before setting down the first bottle to pass Lydia the one of sulphuric acid. Olive, never one for science or the IRA and firebombs, wouldn't have known the first thing about making a Molotov cocktail, and she was curious how it didn't ignite _inside_ the bottle. Lydia added the sulphuric acid, plopping a cork stopper into the neck of the bottle, and pushed it toward Scott, finished.

"No," Allison said suddenly. "No, this is insane. You cannot do this, you cannot go _out there_."

"Well, we can just stay here, let whoever it is come to us and slowly dismember us one by one incredibly _painfully_," Olive remarked tiredly, sighing.

"And we can't just sit here waiting for the fire-department to figure out it's not a prank," Scott added.

Hands splayed on the counter, Allison exclaimed in a choked whisper, "You could die; don't you get that? Whatever's out there has already killed the janitor."

"And we're next," Scott reminded her, and Allison bit her lip. For someone with her family, Allison certainly wasn't _like_ any of her family; aversion to using fire to kill werewolves? Unthinkable for an Argent; it was one of their go-to methods for exterminating 'rabid dogs'. "Somebody has to do something."

"Just _stop_!" Allison cried. Her eyes were filled with tears as she slid over to Scott, pouting. "Do you remember, do you remember when you told me, you knew whether or not I was lying, that I had a tell?" Scott nodded, silent. "So do you. You're a horrible liar… And you've been lying all night."

Olive rolled her eyes, but she couldn't help notice that Jackson was smirking smugly.

"Just…please…please don't g-go," Allison cried. "Please don't leave us…Please…"

Olive snapped again: "Oh, for the love of Rosemary's Baby!" Rolling her eyes, she handed her First Aid kit to Stiles. She plucked the Molotov cocktail out of Scott's hands, giving Allison a withering look. "I'm really starting to understand why they kill the pretty girls off first thing in horror-movies…" She glanced at Lydia, licking her lips, looking at the bottle in her hands uncertainly. "So, what, I just…toss it?"

"As easy as that," Lydia half-smiled. Olive glanced down at the bottle of liquid. A Molotov cocktail. A self-igniting firebomb. As easy as throwing a bottle of liquid.

"As easy as that," she said softly. Glancing at Scott, the others, she approached the chalkboard, glancing at Scott pointedly, and wrote a small note on the board with a tiny bit of leftover chalk; _Listen for me. I'll distract it. When coast's clear, get them out_. She carefully erased the message with her finger before licking her lips again; she cleared her throat, took a deep breath and walked to the door, carefully lifting the chair from under the door-handle. Pausing at the door as she opened it a crack, she laughed sadly, glancing back into the room, looking over their faces, at Stiles working his jaw, staring after her and looking upset, at Allison cuddled in Scott's arms, crying.

"Wow. Not a single one of you begged me to stay," she said, half-laughing, but not really…not really finding it funny. She sighed to herself, putting it behind her, though there was a heaviness on her shoulders and in her chest that she didn't like. "This never would've happened to Sigourney…" She slipped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

The coolness in the hall enveloped her, calming after the chaos that Allison, Jackson and Lydia had brought into the situation so helpfully.

She paused just inside the double-doors spread open wide, halfway down the hall. She just paused to _think_, to breathe, to clear her head of her irritation over Allison; to stop wondering why Jackson had looked so smug at Allison crying that Scott had been lying; to stop marvelling that her study-partner for Latin knew how to make a Molotov cocktail from memory; that Stiles had had that _look_ on his face when she'd approached the door…as if, even if he'd wanted to, he couldn't have spoken to beg her not to go, emotion choking him from the inside.

The fire-alarms were still ringing, and they messed slightly with her hearing; but she could hear the others talking—

"_We shouldn't have let her go_." Stiles.

"_She took the bottle out of my hands, what was I supposed to do_?" Scott.

"_I don't get this. I—I don't get why she's out there, why she left us and I c-can't…I c-can't…I can't stop my hands from shaking_." Allison. Of course. Crying. Pouting. Sniffling. Annoying.

"_Olive's right; for the love of god, would you pull yourself together? You're not out there alone with only a firebomb and a wish to protect you_." Stiles again. Snapping. Annoyed. Olive smiled softly.

"_It's okay_." Jackson. Strangely warm, comforting. "_It's okay. It's gonna be okay_."

"_You do realise you're supposed to be comforting your _own_ girlfriend_?" Lydia. Terse. Olive smiled again. Lydia was growing on her.

"_It's okay, Allison_." Scott, gentle. He could hear the worry and guilt in his voice. "_Olive's brave. She's smart. She'll be okay_." A quiet, annoyed scoff, probably from Allison. "What_? You didn't want me to go out there, here I am; Olive's out there by herself. You got what you wanted_." Olive grimaced guilty; Scott was starting to sound annoyed.

She took a deep breath, calming herself, getting rid of her annoyance; her anxiety; the crushing fear that something was going to happen to Stiles that she would _never_ be able to explain to his father; her curiosity over who had sent Allison that text. She let it all go, and she opened her eyes.

She wasn't afraid.

In the dark, her eyesight was as perfect as in midday; probably better, with the sun not shining directly into her eyes, obscuring her vision. Not a werewolf, Olive was still of the supernatural world, evolved beyond humankind and thankful for her perfect vision, her weightless, soundless movements when she wanted to utilise them, her healing, her speed. And her knowledge of horror-movie clichés and her education in the ways of the werewolf.

There was no way the Alpha hadn't heard them mixing the Molotov cocktail. There was no way it had stopped outside the Chem. Lab classroom and _not_ come in for a reason. It was playing with them. With Scott. Had it brought Allison here? And, through her, Jackson and Lydia?

Two previous witnesses to one of its murders, and Allison…the daughter of the Argents. Hunters…

She wandered off down the hall, thinking. There were things that didn't add up: why text Allison; why cut off their access to the police if it didn't intend on killing them? Why the video-store clerk; why Laura?

"WWERD?" she murmured to herself, with a soft sigh, taking in her surroundings carefully. "What would Ellen Ripley do?" Stepping silently, she walked down the hall, carefully scenting the air for the coppery warm tang of blood. The janitor's blood. At least there had been only one casualty so far tonight.

"Who's afraid of the big bad wolf…?" she hummed to herself, licking her lips. When she was far enough away from the Chem. Lab that only Scott could hear her if he wanted to, she sighed, and said, "I know I'm not the one you're after…but I'm beginning to get it. Scott's not _all_ you're after…" She licked her lips, revealing something she hadn't even told Stiles: "I looked into the names of the people you killed… But Laura didn't fit… The other two…they had interesting histories.

"One of them was the insurance-investigator on the Hale fire six years ago," she said clearly, scenting the air again, so glad Moses and the Hales had taught her everything they knew about hunting and tracking as if she was a werewolf, as well as the tricks and talents her mother had taught her before she had even started middle-school. "So did you know the Hales?" she asked curiously, furrowing her brow. Talking to herself staved off the eeriness of the dead school, but she also had an idea that the Alpha, who had probably been listening to their entire conversation since she, Scott and Stiles had entered the school, might be listening. And behind the Alpha was a human who had a motive… If nothing else, she hoped she didn't have to use the Molotov cocktail, that she could _talk_ to him.

She scented the air again, and said softly to herself, surprised, "The basketball gym." She canted her head to one side, thoughtfully, as she entered the open gymnasium. Her father and his best-friend in high-school had played _Cyclones_ basketball. And they'd been good. State Championships good. Olive had seen the banners and flags with her father's surname sewn onto them hanging in this gym, with his best-friend's name; _Hale, P_. She knew her father had been best-friends with Derek's comatose uncle because she had her father's yearbook. And it always upset her to look through the photos in it. Because she knew what had become of the two handsome, grinning boys.

Thinking of Peter Hale, and of the fire, and Laura, she frowned. "Why now, why six _years_ later? And why start with Laura?" She sighed, her eyes burning, her mind flashing from the janitor to Laura's morgue photos, to…to her family. "She was cut in half—that's textbook Hunter execution…but she was killed by an animal. A wolf. You." She sighed, turning in a slow circle, scenting the air and picking up the coppery tang of cooling blood.

Frowning, she bit her lip, walking carefully, a finger curled over the cork in the neck of the bottle. She was holding a self-igniting firebomb. A _fire_ bomb. Just like that, throwing it she could decimate somebody, burn them alive… The sick feeling in her stomach that she'd gotten after asking Lydia what to do with it returned, worse than before, and her mind flashed on Ruby. Pausing, her eyes burned, and she had to bite her lip as emotion overwhelmed her. After a second, she sighed, her eyes still burning, and her voice was rich with emotion when she spoke. "Why did you start with her?

"Maybe you needed the power of an Alpha to do what you need to…for retribution," she said softly. Remembering the spiral Scott had mentioned, the one on the deer, she licked her lips thoughtfully. "But why? Against whom?"

The bleachers were out, fully extended to the markings of the basketball court, something they rarely were during P.E. class. And she knew the team hadn't had a game tonight; they would have put the bleachers back anyway, after the janitor had…after the janitor had swept the floors of discarded cups and candy-wrappers and popcorn. She wondered who was going to tell that poor man's family that the mountain-lion that Chris Argent had supposedly shot in the school parking-lot last Friday had killed him.

Scenting the air carefully, she glanced around, not seeing any red eyes glowing in the dark; scenting the air again, she frowned, eyeing the bleachers. She used to have nightmares about getting trapped under bleachers while they closed… But she had Stiles and Scott and Lydia, and even Jackson and Allison, whom she had to get home to their families. If she'd been more adamant she and the boys not lock themselves inside the school when Derek was attacked, they might not be in this situation. And Lydia and Jackson especially didn't deserve this.

For whatever reason, the Alpha had somehow managed to text _Allison_. Of all of Scott's friends, he had picked on her. Maybe because she was his girlfriend, maybe not, but Olive didn't believe in coincidences, and the likelihood that the Alpha didn't know Allison was the daughter of a Hunter, especially the Argent family of Hunters, was highly unlikely.

Something dripped on her face. A chill sweeping through her, Olive settled her nerves, stopped her legs from shaking, and slowly glanced up.

Her stomach turned, but she kept the contents down. She stifled a shiver, and blinked the burn out of her eyes. Halfway under the bleachers, the janitor dangled from amongst the mechanised metal apparatus.

His keys dangled from his belt-loop.

All she had to do was keep up the ruse that she was out to get the key to the door, and while the Alpha was distracted, the others could slip out. Whether they would or not, she didn't know; Allison seemed the type to want to cry and wait until people came with guns and big flashlights and the coast was clear. She carefully set the Molotov cocktail down, climbing up onto the apparatus, holding her breath and squeezing the burn out of her eyes as she reached for the mauled janitor's keys…just _hoping_ he didn't suddenly start back into life.

It was a good thing she loved horror-movies. She could watch _The Exorcist_ and _Halloween_ and _Friday the Thirteenth_ and fall straight to sleep afterwards, no worries… She had grown up with werewolves and her mother's kind, she _partied_ with werewolves and trained with them, her little sister had been one… Olive had grown up giggling shrilly as werewolves tickled her mercilessly and threw her into the lake, laughing, and taught her how to fight, to use weapons, to engage every one of her senses to their full capacity, to hunt and track. A creature of nightmares, the same as was scaring the piss out of everyone back in that Chem. Lab, had been her first kiss. Her stepfather had been a werewolf. She'd grown up not being afraid of the things all little girls grew up being afraid of; monsters, horror-movies. Cooties, though that was down to her mother's love of all things male.

But a screaming presumed-dead janitor while her nerves were stretched so raw? She would _really_ let out a shriek then.

As the cool metal of the keys brushed her fingertips, she heard it; the mechanised workings of the bleachers. Drawing them in. Closing them. With her—and the janitor—still beneath. She took a jump for the keys, stuck the landing, swept up the Molotov cocktail, and let out a sigh of relief as she skidded out from under the end of the bleachers. Pausing against the wall, she pressed a hand to her heart, shivering… She tried not to think about the state of the janitor's body _now_…

She scented the air, frowning through the gloom of the darkened gymnasium. Nothing. She scented the air again, and caught it; she crossed the gym, going round the edge rather than diagonally across, to the hall.

It was the hall that ran around the pretty courtyard where several lunch-tables were set up, where the popular seniors ate their lunch or socialised during free-periods, making out with their significant-others. Olive had once seen Isaac sitting in a corner of this courtyard, sadly eating lunch alone and listening to his iPod.

She came to the part of the hall that the Alpha had demolished earlier; the crumpled lockers, the smashed windows, the splintered wood and dented floor. Her _Converses_ made the shattered glass crunch underfoot; she picked carefully through the debris, keeping her eyes peeled, and she paused at the heart of the damage; the breeze sifted into the corridor, a breath of delightfully fresh air…with the scent of the Alpha strong on it. Olive glanced into the courtyard, and smiled sadly.

"There you are," she said softly. Because the Alpha was there. Waiting. Watching her. Perfectly still, she wondered if he _had_ been listening to her. Had actually heard what she had said. Carefully, she stepped over the ruined bit of foot-high wall beneath the smashed window, into a flowerbed full of geraniums and sturdy perennial plants and a lilac tree. The Alpha had dislodged several of the very late flowers on its way canon-balling through the window from the roof, and she could smell the natural perfume as her _Converses_ crushed the blossoms.

She was calm, now. Calmer than she had been with Stiles or Scott, definitely calmer than she had been with the others: This was what she was good at. Focusing, doing things by herself and completely, no distractions, no hurrying. She examined the Alpha, wide-eyed, a tiny smile on her lips. Because he wasn't the first she had ever seen; like the others, he was huge.

"You're magnificent," she said honestly, smiling. Her smile faltered, eyes burning, and she blinked, bemused, wondering why his appearance upset her. She had never seen Moses fully-turned…that was a part of his life as a werewolf that he _never_ brought home to his family. The Alpha gazed back at her, neither fidgeting nor growling, hackles raised; just…gazing. Curious. The Alpha was _curious_. She didn't know why; the impression she got from him was…that he was curious…almost _confused_. Like…like he knew her from somewhere…he just didn't know where. Or who she was.

"This isn't the way to go about this, you know," she said softly, coming to stand on the poured-cement slabs that made up the pattern of the courtyard. She frowned softly at the Alpha. "Why don't you…why _don't_ you approach him yourself?" she asked, blinking in surprise. "In your human form?" She realised that he had yet to actually approach Scott in human form, threatening or otherwise. "You need Scott to strengthen your pack, but it's more than that," she said softly, gazing at the Alpha, starting to _see_. "You need him to…maybe to strengthen yourself? Maybe you _can't_…approach him."

If the Alpha was incapacitated physically or even mentally, it was being driven by pure animalistic instinct; everything it was doing might be pure instinct, unable to control himself. But that contradicted the capacity to kill an Alpha, Laura; it contradicted the precise kill of the video-store clerk; the ability to stalk Scott; communicate with werewolf symbols; to send Allison a text to lure her here; to keep up the pretence that it had trapped them here to kill them all…when that wasn't what it wanted at all.

It wanted Scott in its pack. More than that, it wanted Scott to have _only_ him as his pack. No others. No Stiles, no Olive, no Allison or Jackson or Lydia. And why do it himself when Scott had yet to kill to cement his place in the pack…

Understanding dawning, Olive gasped, horrified, and the Alpha raised its head and _howled_.

Howled to force Scott to change, as only an Alpha could.

With all of her strength, Olive threw the Molotov cocktail. While its head was raised to the skies, the Alpha didn't notice, not until it was too late, not until the flame had spread down its entire left arm, over its side, its flank. Burning. As the breeze shifted, Olive gasped hollowly, horrified, eyes burning with tears; she could smell it burning.

Her stomach turned; the Alpha lurched to her; eyes burning with tears, her eardrums burst as the Alpha's howl changed, a sound far more unnatural, far more agonised, more desperate than any noise she'd ever heard an animal make ripping from its chest as she clapped her hands to her bloody ears, screaming in pain, crying—because she could smell it; the heat burned her face; she could hear them, hear her mother, Moses roaring into the night, caged, Ruby's petrified, anguished screams of agony, the scent of burning flesh sifting through the night as the blaze warmed her face and she cried, tearing at the mountain-ash wood of the shed, burning her hands, her arms, the padlock on the outside of the door glowing with the heat, too hot to hold, too strong to break off.

Eyes burning, she started to cry, sobs tumbling from her body as tears washed her cheeks; she was no better than the woman with the silver wolf pendant. She had…she had burned this man, caused indescribable pain, done the same thing to him as Kate Argent had done to her family. She had burned him alive.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks, and with a howl of rage and pain and anguish, the Alpha swiped at her with its left arm. It sliced through skin and muscle, and Olive dropped to the floor, her knees giving out, hands covered in blood as she dropped them from her ears to her stomach, pain shooting through her body, making her limbs shake with adrenaline. Her eyes blurry, she heard everything in pain-filled tones as her ears started trying to heal themselves—the fire-alarm, sirens, the Alpha's roars of pain; she saw through blurred eyes the fire, the Alpha thrashing around trying to put out the flames, launching itself onto the roof…disappearing with another roar, gunfire…

She gazed down at her stomach. The claws had gone straight through like she was made of soft butter.

Crying silently, she looked down at her shaking hand covered in blood, the other keeping her insides _inside_… She shifted from her knees to her bottom…from there, she felt the warmth and coppery taste of blood in her mouth, slumping down to the ground, one forearm gentling her way to the cement, curling up, crying…because for the first time in a long time, she'd remembered the smell of burning flesh.

She'd remembered _exactly_ what she had felt while her family burned to death in front of her.

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**A.N.**: I know it's been a while since I updated; I've been working on my _Vampire Diaries_ story, 'Drunken Binges, Funerals and Formals'! Check it out, please!


	10. Chapter 10

**A.N.**: Thank you for the reviews, keep them coming! Sorry I haven't updated in a while; it's dissertation/thesis year for me, and I've had assignments up the wazoo.

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**The Judgement of Actaeon**

_10_

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"What in the hell…was _that_?" Sheriff Stilinski stared.

"Not a mountain-lion," Derek murmured, watching the trail of fire fade as the Alpha disappeared into the very woods Derek had only an hour ago crawled to heal himself. Resentment curled in his stomach as his claws sharpened in the pockets of his jacket, that he couldn't follow that trail.

The memory of his back injury still lingered, as did all of the memories of his injuries, but he had been healing and conscious in time to pick up Olive's phone-call. Leaving the Alpha inside, when he'd had this perfect opportunity, had cost him a lot; but Olive had asked.

Derek didn't trust anybody: but he'd watched Olive grow up, taught her how to swim and throw a baseball so hard it hurt even _his_ hand. He trusted her to be smart, to wrangle those two idiots whenever they got into trouble, and he trusted that she always trusted her instincts.

Even if nothing had come of contacting the Alpha, or of making any headway into proving his identity, one thing had come out of Derek's part in this failed experiment: Sheriff Stilinski had warmed to Derek.

Suspected for the murder of his own sister, and released without real evidence or plausible motive, Derek had now helped the Sheriff's son get out of a life-threatening situation when someone had lied to the cops and said kids would be prank-calling about the high-school, when a handful of kids had been in very real danger. Not a danger the cops entirely understood, but a glimpse of the burning Alpha had made the cops' jaws drop and caused heartbeats to falter.

They had arrived at the school to find the fire-alarms ringing, windows smashed, the hood of Stiles' _Jeep_ peeled open like a can of tuna, something roaring like an unholy demon in the worst kind of pain imaginable, five scared but relieved pale faces gazing out from an upper-storey window, hands pattering against the glass to draw their attention. Then the Alpha had reared up onto the roof, aflame, trailing a stench of chemicals, its entire right-side burning, guns had fired, and the Sheriff had run into the school headfirst with only one thought; his son.

Derek had pulled him back, knowing there weren't but reminding him there could be others; the cops had gone in ahead of the Sheriff, ambulances called in because Dr Deaton, the veterinarian Derek had almost killed, had roused from unconsciousness, lying in a heap on the ground behind Derek's car, the farthest he'd managed to move before the Alpha had attacked Derek.

It didn't take long for the cops to secure the school: Derek went inside with the Sheriff, true to his word to Olive to watch his back, the kind, stern man kind of growing on him, utterly different from his hyperactive idiot kid, but with the same heart. While he'd been healing, the kids had been running, the Alpha, demolishing something in practically every wing of the high-school Derek himself had graduated from; his baseball trophy was still in the lobby.

The roar of the Alpha as it had crashed into the woods, burning, fleeing; the lights of the fire-trucks and the sirens of the police-cruisers out front; the cops swarming the school with their guns drawn; the kids came tumbling out of the Chemistry Lab classroom shaky but relieved, crying, ready to wet themselves, but okay.

The partially-demolished school was worse off than the kids who came stumbling out of the building, ready for blankets from the EMT first-responders while they were given a check to see none of them had sustained any injuries.

They were all questioned; the giant animal stalking first Scott and Stiles into the school; something ripping the battery out of Stiles' _Jeep_; the janitor being killed while Stiles and Scott hid in the boys' locker-room; Allison receiving a text that had lured her there, Lydia and Jackson following when they'd noticed Stiles' _Jeep_; Olive having the smarts to pull the fire-alarms to alert the fire-department despite the police having been told there would be 'prank-calls'; Lydia mixing a Molotov cocktail in the Chemistry Lab.

Simmering over the lost opportunity to follow the Alpha, frowning over the stench of burning chemicals and flesh and hair, glaring at Stiles and Scott to make sure they didn't say anything, glowering at Dr Deaton to make sure _he_ didn't say anything, it was a while before Derek noticed. He watched Stiles tell his dad everything he knew, and then…they hugged: It couldn't be clearer that Sheriff Stilinski really loved his son; and Stiles knew the danger his father would be in if he came head to head with the Alpha and loved his father just as much in return. He watched the Sheriff's deputies take statements from the other kids: Lydia telling how she'd made the Molotov cocktail, surprisingly impressing Derek; Jackson was as much of a jackass as he always was, worse because he had been _scared_, and feeling weak and afraid made him go on the offensive. Allison Argent was pouting and simmering with resentment over being vulnerable and being shouted at by Scott, whom she pouted at and gave an injured look, setting her jaw and brushing him off, giving the sheriff's deputies short, rude answers.

The EMT tending to Dr Deaton, Stiles clutching onto a bright yellow plastic box like it was a lifebelt, Scott gazing wistfully after Allison as she strutted away from everyone, arms folded over her chest, her jaw working, eyes cold, Lydia was talking very quickly on the phone to her mother, Jackson was shouting at one of the deputies, and Derek realised… Olive wasn't there.

"Where's Olive?" he murmured, checking faces, searching the backseats of police-cruisers for blanketed teenage-girls. "Olive?" he called. "Stiles—where's Olive?" Derek asked, striding up to the pale teenager, clinging to that yellow plastic box that had Olive's scent all over it. Stiles did a double-take at Derek, eyes popping; he glanced around, his expression falling as his eyes widening.

"She's not…here?" Stiles stammered, staring around, from Jackson scowling as he waited by his _Porsche_, Lydia's mother throwing herself out of the driver's seat of the car before she had even put the parking-brake on, Allison standing over by herself, attention-seeking as she alienated everyone. Olive wasn't there. Derek glanced around, dread filling him.

"She… She took the Molotov cocktail," Stiles murmured, glancing back at the school as horror seemed to dawn on him.

"Olive… Olive's here too?" Sheriff Stilinski asked, his eyes widening, and his hand went to his gun holstered at his hip, even as he checked the faces of everyone around them. Derek scanned every face, checked every scent; he and the sheriff ran into the school at the same moment. His own concern for Olive was heightened by the Sheriff's affection for her; as they ran the length of the corridors, calling Olive's name, Derek scenting the air, he could tell just how much the sheriff had bonded with orphaned pretty Olive.

The scent of blood came thick in his mouth as they careened through a set of double-doors, and they saw the devastation the Alpha had wrought on several corridors that encircled a courtyard; two of the enormous sheet-glass windows had been shattered, the frames splintered and wrecked; the floor was dented, and a stretch of metal lockers had been squashed and bent out of shape.

"_Olive_!" the Sheriff called, but scenting the air, Derek glanced to the left, into the courtyard.

"Sheriff," he said quietly, and jogged down to the broken windows, climbing out into the courtyard.

In a quickly-drying pool of her own blood was Olive, curled up like a baby, blood drying on her cheek and neck from her ears; her hand was covered in blood, and her phone was flashing in her back-pocket, Stiles' attempt to contact her; her curls were more defined because blood had gotten onto them, wetting them, but Derek couldn't see the injury because she was tucked up. There was no way to stop the Sheriff from calling the paramedics in now; Olive could moderate the speed at which she healed, but only when she was conscious, and whatever injury she had sustained to her ears had already healed.

"Olive," Derek said quietly, placing a hand on her shoulder, gently trying to shake her. Her heartbeat was faltering, and as he knelt down beside Olive, the Sheriff breathed, "Oh my god…" His expression said a lot; as Derek carefully lifted Olive out of the pool of her own blood, she moaned softly, but didn't wake. "Wait—!"

"It'll take too long for the paramedics to get to her," Derek said plainly, lifting Olive into his arms; inhaling, the scent of blood hit him like a freight train; glancing down, he saw the rips in Olive's top.

Her stomach was a bloody mess of tattered skin and sinew, blood, even _bone_ visible from her hip, and as he carried her, Derek could see her organs knitting themselves back together, healing. The worst part behind her, she roused slightly when Derek accidentally jostled her, pain-drenched eyes sliding over him, unfocused.

"You're alright," Derek said softly. Cold and distant as he was, as much of a bastard as he was, he wasn't _heartless_. Not completely; and seeing Olive like this, anger and worry simmered low in his stomach.

A tiny pain-filled moan issued from Olive as he jostled her again, not wanting to lose his grip on her, and her head lolled against his shoulder, a sigh of relief and pain and exhaustion issuing from her lips before her body relaxed in his arms, passing out completely. It took him perhaps a minute to get her outside; the Sheriff was pale and worried as the paramedics wheeled a gurney over. As their friend was carried out, bleeding and broken, Lydia burst into tears, Jackson's jaw worked and his eyes glazed over as he hugged an arm around his girlfriend, as Mrs Martin covered her mouth with her hands, eyes sparkling, and Stiles' lower-lip trembled, eyes sparkling with tears as he hugged that stupid plastic box like a lifebelt.

"It got her," the Sheriff said, pale and worried; Stiles darted forward, as did Lydia, and Lydia gasped, horrified, when Derek laid Olive on the gurney. There was a collective gasp of horror as Olive's stomach was revealed, the tattered cotton of her t-shirt, the lacerated skin, that tiny peek of shining white bone; she had begun to heal, but not being a werewolf, it would take longer. "She's lost a _lot_ of blood."

The paramedic shot a lot of technical jargon at their partner, who got busy inside the ambulance; Derek glanced down at the blood on his arms and hands, felt it soaking his t-shirt; and then he saw that Allison's family had come to collect her. Hard Chris Argent with his gun concealed in his pocket, pouting Allison who was demanding answers from anyone—"what happened to her; what did that? how did it get away?"—and a dark-haired woman Derek could only assume was Allison's mother. They had the same bone-structure, though the mother's was softer, and she was taller and had a fuller figure, was gentler.

While Chris Argent glared at Derek challengingly, the woman with him didn't even look at Derek; she gazed after Olive as she was wheeled into the ambulance, concern washing over her.

"Allison, get in the car," Chris Argent ordered his daughter, as Derek glowered back at him, his eyes never moving from Derek's face. "When we get home we're going to have a serious discussion about what being _grounded_ means. And maybe you can explain to me why one of your school-friends looks like she's been attacked by Freddy Krueger."

"I hope the others are okay," Mrs Argent said gently. "Allison—the car. Now!"

"Sorry, uh—Mr Hale?" Sheriff Stilinski said, catching Derek's attention, and Derek broke eye-contact with Chris Argent only to frown at the sheriff. "I don't know how well you know Olive, but I know she's got no family in Beacon Hills. Do you know if she has any family at _all_?"

"Not anymore," Derek said quietly, gaze sliding over to Chris Argent. "She doesn't have anyone." The sheriff sighed, running a hand over his face tiredly. What had started as an easy shift for him had turned into another nightmare; only compounded by the fact his son had been involved.

"You don't know if she has any legal-guardian, or anything?" the Sheriff asked.

"She's emancipated," Derek said quietly, glancing down at his hands as they smeared with blood. She hadn't wanted to go into foster-care; her mother had put aside a monthly allowance for Olive in the event of her death, and without Ruby to share it with, Olive was more than okay financially until she turned eighteen.

"Dad," Stiles appeared, still clutching that box, pale and panicked and upset. "Is she going to be okay?" His eyes slid over Derek, who gave a slight nod.

"I don't know, son," the Sheriff sighed heavily. "They'll take Olive to the hospital; we just have to be patient. Stiles, I need to know what happened. Why was Olive by herself?"

"I told you—Olive took the Molotov cocktail," Stiles said; Derek tensed when Chris Argent approached with his wife, wrapped up in a soft grey cardigan-sweater, watching the ambulance worriedly as she rubbed her arm.

"Sheriff," he nodded. "I'm sorry—I'd like to know what my daughter was up to tonight. What happened?"

"I'm just trying to figure that out," the Sheriff sighed, glancing up at Chris Argent. "Stiles?"

Stiles sighed heavily, glancing for a second at Derek, who kept his eye on Chris Argent despite the other man's seeming casual interest in talking to the Sheriff. "I told you—" Stiles sighed. "When we got trapped in the school by that thing, Olive thought it was a good idea to get her First Aid kit out of her locker." He shook the yellow box in his arms, and Derek had to hide a tiny smile; that sounded like just the sort of thing she'd do. "When Jackson and Lydia and Allison arrived, that thing dropped out of the ceiling, attacking us, and we ran for it, into the cafeteria. Allison started shouting and asking inane questions, and that's when Olive called Derek." Derek nodded.

"She said they were trapped in the school; she didn't know by what," he said, glancing covertly at Chris Argent, who was watching him carefully.

"That's when Lydia tried the police," Stiles said, giving his dad a reproving look. "Dispatch _hung up on her_. Said they'd had a tip there would be prank-calls. So Allison starts panicking and crying because Scott shouted at her, and Olive snaps at her to shut up, Allison made some snarky comment about Olive not doing anything to help either, which wasn't true at all, she was _thinking_—so Olive smashed all the fire-alarms she could reach as we ran upstairs. If the police weren't gonna listen, we'd get the fire-department here… That's when we got to the Chem. Lab, and Lydia figured out how to make a Molotov cocktail."

"Hang on a second—a sixteen-year-old girl knew how to make a Molotov cocktail?" Mrs Argent interjected, stunned.

"Lydia Martin has a 5.0 GPA," Stiles said, almost defensively. "She hasn't had her IQ tested yet but she's gonna win a Nobel Prize one day, I know it."

"So what happened next, how come you guys split up?" the Sheriff prompted.

"Well, the door to the fire-escape was in the Chem. Lab, but it had a deadbolt, so Scott volunteered to go and find the janitor in the locker-rooms, for his keys," Stiles said solemnly. Glancing reprovingly at Mr Argent, he added, "Then Allison starts _crying_ again that Scott could die, whatever, making an embarrassment out of herself, begging Scott not to go, so Olive loses patience—I think Allison must be some kinda kryptonite, because I've never seen her get so annoyed so quickly before—and takes the Molotov cocktail from Scott, and she goes out to find the keys. All by herself."

"Brave girl," Mrs Argent said, glancing at the ambulance as it drove off speedily.

"Yeah. And if your daughter had been braver, Olive wouldn't be in that ambulance with a stomach cut up like spaghetti," Stiles scowled. He glanced at his dad. "After she left, all we could hear was the fire-alarms, until we heard that thing roar."

"And that's when we got here," Sheriff Stilinski sighed, writing something on his notepad. "Came over the roof just there, still burning. Olive had good aim."

"You should see her throw a baseball," Derek said quietly, smiling internally; he'd taught her how to play baseball, his favourite sport in the world, and if she threw a baseball to you, your hand would sting for a week.

"I'm just glad she stopped Jackson before he handed Lydia the wrong bottle of chemicals," Stiles sighed, his cheeks hollow. Gazing after the ambulance, Derek turned to the Sheriff.

"I'm gonna go the hospital, if we're done here," he said.

"Yeah, I've got your statement," Sheriff Stilinski sighed. He offered his hand; Derek indicated the blood on his, and the Sheriff glanced at him, his expression very earnest. "Thanks for coming to the station, convincing us the kids were in danger." Derek nodded; he turned on his heel, dug his keys out of his pocket, and slung himself into the driver's seat of his car.

In his rear-view mirror, he saw Scott jogging over to the Argents' SUV, Stiles trailing him still clutching that yellow box.

"Well, we survived, dude," Stiles said miserably. The image of Olive lying on that gurney, torn up and bloody, would haunt him for a long time. Worse, because he'd felt so guilty about letting her go by herself, knowing he couldn't have done anything to help even if he had gone with her, angry at Allison for pulling a strop and pulling on Scott's heartstrings, guilting him into staying while Olive had voiced what he and everyone else had probably been thinking; that Allison was _the_ most useless and annoying girl to have with you in a crisis, a true doe-eyed, pale-skinned helpless damsel in distress. "We outlasted the Alpha. Olive even got a few shots in, thanks to Lydia."

"When we were in the Chemistry room, it walked right _by_ us," Scott said, tense. "You don't think that it heard us, you don't think that it knew exactly where we were?"

"Well then how come we're still alive?" Stiles asked.

"It _wants_ me in its _pack_," Scott said angrily. Stiles frowned.

"I guess Olive figured that out," he said softly, gazing at Scott. "That roar the Alpha gave—you started to change."

"Yeah," Scott sighed heavily, glancing over at the Argents' SUV.

"But then it changed; the roar became a howl; that's when Olive must've hit it with the Molotov cocktail," Stiles said, realisation dawning. "She knew the Alpha could force you to change by howling, so she threw the firebomb to stop him—because you were in the room with us… He wanted you to kill all of us."

"He wants me to get rid of my old pack," Scott said softly. Stiles sighed heavily.

"You mean me and Olive," he said quietly, clutching Olive's First Aid box. He'd given Lydia the dried dates out of the box to give her some natural sugar to calm her nerves; Jackson had eaten the _Clif_ bar to have something else to think about; Allison had taken a _Band Aid_ for a _tiny_ cut on her finger.

"You, Olive…Allison. Jackson, Lydia," Scott sighed. "And he wants me to do it. And that's not even the worst part."

"How in holy hell is that not the worst part, Scott?!" Stiles exclaimed.

"Because when he started to make me shift…I almost _wanted_ to do it," Scott said repentantly, not quite meeting Stiles' eye. "I wanted to kill you…all of you."

"Allison brought you back," Stiles said quietly, after a minute. Remembering how Scott had fallen to the floor, grunting and crying in pain, Allison had gripped hold of him, talking to him; her voice, her scent, her touch…they must have been the only thing that had stopped Scott from following the Alpha's orders.

"Allison…and maybe Olive," Scott said, sighing. "If she hadn't thrown that firebomb…the Alpha might've finished making its call. I might've actually turned."

"But you didn't," Stiles reminded him. "You didn't kill anyone…Olive will heal… We'll spend thousands on therapy-bills, but all we have to do now is figure out what the hell happened to Jackson in there."

"Yeah, what was that?" Scott frowned.

"I don't know, but it looked like something had punctured his neck," Stiles shrugged. "He responded to the Alpha's call as well…"

"You don't think…when he and Lydia were at the video-store…?"

"Well, won't do any good asking him," Stiles sighed, glancing after Jackson, whose parents had just arrived in yet another flashy sports-car, anxious about their son, probably ready to sue the pelt off of the Alpha's back. Scott glanced around, watching Allison strut around her parents' SUV, waiting for them to finish talking to the Sheriff and his deputies.

"Allison!" he called, jogging over, and Stiles followed his best-friend, biting his lip. The Alpha wanted to kill off Scott's friends so he'd have nobody but the Alpha left. And someone had to have sent Allison that text… "Are you okay?"

"My parents will take me home as soon as they've finished talking to the sheriff," Allison said curtly, avoiding looking at Scott.

"That's not what he asked," Stiles said, frowning softly at Allison.

"You need anything from me?" Scott asked tentatively, gazing at his girlfriend's profile. "You want me to go with you?"

"No," Allison said coldly. "I don't."

"Okay," Scott said slowly, glancing at Stiles, who shrugged, but didn't like her rude tone. He'd noticed that; whenever she felt vulnerable, Allison would become incredibly cold and _rude_. While Olive had been trying to keep a good head on her shoulders and keep everyone _rational_ and alive, figuring out that the fire-department would _have_ to come and respond when the alarms were set off even if the police-department had already been told there would be prank-calls when they'd called for help, Allison had been crying and hysterical and had _pouted_ sulkily when Scott had bitten her head off for asking yet another inane question when they had already said they didn't have any answers.

"And I also don't know what happened to you in there," Allison said, glancing at Scott. "I don't know what you were thinking. Maybe you weren't, but… Right now I don't—I don't feel like I can trust you."

"Allison, I can explain—" Scott blurted, eyes widening in alarm.

"I don't care," Allison said coolly.

"Just wait, don't say anything else!" Scott begged. "Please just don't say anything else—" As Allison opened her mouth, Stiles knew how Olive had felt seconds before snapping at Allison inside and smashing those fire-alarms. Something had snapped.

"Um, if I can just interject right here," he said coolly, glaring at Allison. "Olive's on the way to the hospital after being _disembowelled_, because you didn't want Scott to go out alone to get those keys, and right now all you can say is that you don't _trust_ _Scott_?" Allison opened her mouth, eyelashes fluttering, looking taken-aback, but Stiles wouldn't let those pouting lips suck him in; he also wasn't finished: "You got what you wanted, Scott didn't go out and risk his neck, but right now our best-friend is on the way to the hospital and I don't know if she's gonna make it, so thanks. You've really given me a refreshing perspective on your personality." Allison opened her mouth, eyelashes fluttering, stunned. Stiles glanced at his best-friend.

"Stiles' dad is gonna give me a ride home, I have to make sure my mom isn't freaking out—I'm gonna get a new phone—tomorrow morning!—" Scott stammered.

"Scott!" Allison said softly.

"I'm gonna get a new phone, and I'll give you a call."

"Don't," Allison whispered.

"What?"

"Don't call," Allison said hoarsely. "Just… Please don't call me." Another flare-up of anger had Stiles scowling.

"Scott, come on, you're better off without that selfish brat," he said coolly, frowning at Allison as her eyes glittered, Scott standing there stunned.

"Stiles!" Scott said warningly.

"No!" Stiles gritted his teeth. "See _this_ is why I was mad at you this week, because you do anything she asks, and you _ignore_ everything else. Meanwhile my dad's getting hurt, _Olive_ could be _dying_ right now, and all she can say," Stiles exclaimed indignantly, getting more and more upset the more he spoke, because he was right; Olive _could_ be dying right now, "is she doesn't trust _you_? Because we didn't answer her questions because _we_ don't know the effing answers?!" he shouted at Allison. Glancing at Scott, he exclaimed angrily, "She shouldn't have even _been_ at the school. And you can't say no to her; she's the _reason_ Olive is hurt."

"Stiles, come on," Scott said softly, glancing from him to Allison, who had that wounded victim pouting look again.

"No!" Stiles blurted again, as Scott took him by the upper-arm and moved him away from Allison. "She didn't want you to go, and you didn't stop Olive from leaving like you should've," Stiles continued. "She bats those eyelashes and you just drop everything. D'you really think your mom deserved you skipping school—forget the fact you're almost flunking most of your classes already and it's _October_ and it was the same day as parent-teacher conferences—you disappeared without even _calling_ her or answering my texts. How would I have explained that to your mom, huh, if something had happened?"

Scott frowned. "You never said you had a problem with my relationship with Allison." Stiles stared, taken aback by the fact that that was _all_ Scott could take from his tirade.

"I didn't. But now that I know how self-destructive and irresponsible she makes you, yeah, I have a problem with it, especially since she couldn't even be bothered to even _ask_ if Olive was gonna be _okay_," Stiles said, shouting back at Allison, who blanched. "Why does _she_ get to play the victim card, huh? What gives her the right to pout and bitch? There's not a scratch on her, why does everyone have to take care of _her_?"

"Stiles," Scott said gently.

"Olive's been turned into a kitty-climber and that thing ripped the battery out my _Jeep_ and all you can do is pout like you're the victim," Stiles scowled at Allison.

"That thing could've killed me too," she blurted, eyes glittery with tears. "You asked me to come here."

"_We didn't send you that text, Allison_!" Stiles shouted incredulously. "How many times do we have to tell you that?"

"Then who did send it?" Allison hissed icily.

"_How the hell should we know_?" Stiles shouted back. "Do I have _AT&T_ or _Verizon_ stamped on my forehead? We were a bit busy to send any texts, okay, running for our lives, avoiding flying batteries and mauled janitors!"

"Well, I'll save you the trouble next time and just ignore your texts," Allison said coolly.

"You mean like you did the day my _dad_ ended up in the E.R.," Stiles said, glancing at Scott. "It's funny, how people end up in the E.R. when you and Scott are involved, it's funny!"

"Stiles," Scott said again.

"I repeat; you're getting irresponsible when you're around her and it's everyone else who suffers because of it," Stiles scowled. He hadn't been angry before; he'd been thrilled that they had escaped with their heads on their shoulders, heart in his throat for Olive but knowing she had healed perfectly from Derek breaking her nose the other night. But again, he got the feeling this was how Olive had felt before adopting the Sigourney Weaver mentality in the situation—she was the only survivor in _Alien_, after all—and telling Allison off for being completely useless and only perpetuating the danger of the situation by making everyone annoyed and forcing them to take care of her.

He sighed heavily, fiddling with the now-useless keys to his _Jeep _in his pocket, still clutching Olive's First Aid box. Suddenly tired, he sighed, shaking his head, "You know what, I'm gonna go to the hospital. Olive doesn't have anyone else, and…she's not gonna wake up there alone." Sending Allison a cold look, he said, "If you can be _bothered_, some flowers might be a nice show of appreciation for trying to take on that thing so you and your _boyfriend_ could escape…" Glancing at Scott, he said, gesticulating, "Except I have to go beg a ride from my dad because that thing played _Operation_ with the engine of my _Jeep_."

Ignoring Allison's parents as they hurried to shepherd their crying daughter into their big shiny SUV, Stiles paused only to ask Lydia whether she was okay before her mom drove her home. Coming up beside his dad, he sighed softly, "D'you mind giving me a ride to the hospital?"

"Olive's probably only just got into the E.R., kid," his dad sighed, "there's probably nothing you can do yet. It might be a while before she wakes up."

"I just… I just don't want her to wake up…alone," Stiles said quietly, and his dad gripped his shoulder comfortingly.

"They'll take care of her, Stiles," he said warmly. "Scott's mom's working the E.R. tonight; she'll make sure Olive's taken care of."

"But she doesn't have _anybody_," Stiles said, upset.

"Derek Hale already drove over to the hospital, following the ambulance," his dad said. "And you kids could probably do with something hot to drink and _bed_."

"But Dad—"

"Stiles… I know she's your best-friend," his dad said softly, looking every bit as concerned and scared for Olive as Stiles felt. "But crowding the nurses at the E.R. won't help any, and I've still gotta figure out what went on here. And how much damage there is… Though you might wanna write Olive a real nice Get Well card while you're off school tomorrow and Friday."

"What?" Stiles glanced up, blinking quickly, and his dad winked.

"Gonna have to close up the school to repair the damages," he said, shrugging. "And there's the missing janitor, too." He sighed, giving Stiles a sombre look. "We have to find his body."

"Right," Stiles mumbled. The school had to be closed… Olive would laugh that they'd done a service to their fellow students in a Weasley-twins sort of way. And then she'd be bummed she'd be in the hospital to miss out on leisure time. Something she didn't really have. Stiles didn't know what it was like to live alone; to cook and clean and do laundry, to do her homework without help, to fit in studying in between gymnastics training and her part-time job at the little bookstore, as well as go to school, _and_ find time to hang out with him and Scott, and to always be kind to people and mild-mannered, patient. He didn't know how she went home to a silent, empty house every night, ate her dinner alone and had to remind herself to lock the front-door because there was nobody else in the house to protect her.

It was no wonder she wasn't scared of anything: She couldn't afford to be.

When he finally got to the E.R., bone-tired and, just as his dad had suggested, ready to fall into bed and stay there for a week, Stiles found Olive in a private little room, wearing one of those scratchy paper gowns, a blanket tucked over her legs, hooked up to her forearm while something was clipped on her finger and one of those funny tubes was taped under her nose, and the soft _beep…beep…beep_ of the heartbeat monitor was the only noise; Derek sat in a chair in the half-darkness of the room, one hand propping his head up, his eyes closed, his expression solemn, one hand curled loosely over Olive's where it was tucked beside her on the bed.

Derek chuffed in his sleep like a dog, starting and sniffing the air as he awoke from a doze, and Stiles waved slightly as he entered the room.

"Thought your dad would've taken you home," Derek said in a murmur. Stiles swallowed and stepped closer to the bed, gazing at Olive. She looked so _pale_…and _young_. Sometimes he forgot; she was so mellow, so mature and kind and…and _adult_… He forgot that she was sixteen years old. But now she looked every bit her age, young and vulnerable, the blood she had lost telling in her ashen complexion.

"He just…let me come check that she'll be okay," Stiles said, staring down at Olive. "Has she… Is she okay?"

"She hasn't woken yet," Derek said quietly, turning those pale grey eyes on Olive's face concernedly.

"Does she need anything?" Stiles asked tremulously. He couldn't see any sign of her injuries; she had been washed of the blood that had soaked her when Derek carried her out of the school; her _own_ blood. And in that paper gown, her injury was covered up, not even the hint of a bandage showing.

"I… I don't know," Derek said quietly, gazing at her young, incredibly pretty face. "I don't know what you bring people in the hospital." He flicked a glance up at Stiles. "My family never had much cause for them."

"Yeah, I guess not," Stiles sighed. He was familiar with hospitals; his mother had slowly died in this very one. And he knew that after one single meal from the hospital cafeteria, people were sick of the food; he knew they hated the scratchy, backless paper gowns; he knew that the blank walls, generic artwork and the _smell_ got to people, that it wasn't the most encouraging environment to inspire spiritual and physical wellness. "She'll want clothes. Her pyjamas. She loves pyjamas. And her toothbrush. And a few books. Oh, and…"

He frowned, glancing around, and spotted the drawer of the bedside-cabinet. Tugging it open, he found the clothes Olive had arrived in, her dark, subtle designer jeans that fit her so well, and her touch-screen _HTC_ cell-phone. It was the same phone Spencer had in _Pretty Little Liars_; Stiles liked watching it because the girls were gorgeous, and he appreciated Emily's taste in girls; he thought Maya looked suspiciously like Ms Morrell, his guidance-counsellor.

"What're you doing?" Derek asked, frowning, as Stiles tapped the pass-code to unlock Olive's phone, and Stiles walked around the end of the bed to perch on the side, so he and Derek could both see the screen.

"Olive showed me and my dad this App her friend invented," Stiles said, going through the phone applications. "She can remotely turn an alarm on in her cabin that's connected to a tiny camera; if someone goes in without entering the code on her phone to disarm it, the camera will record the intruder and her phone will call straight to the police-dispatch line."

"Smart friend," Derek said simply, raising his eyebrows.

"Yep," Stiles said. "So I can activate the alarm while Olive's here, just in case. She'd be devastated if someone burgled her while she's stuck here."

It was all he could do for Olive at the moment; but he knew she would indeed be utterly devastated if she came home and all her treasures had been stolen. Some of them were worth only a few hundred bucks to someone else, but to her they were priceless.

"So, um… I'll come back tomorrow," Stiles said, placing Olive's phone back in the drawer.

"I'm staying here," Derek said, eyeing Olive carefully. "I didn't like the impression I got from Argent when he saw me with her." Stiles stilled, glancing at Derek.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Argent knows there was a second Beta out in the woods when Scott got shot," Derek said, glancing up at Stiles. "They just don't know who. Argent knows Olive knows me enough to have my cell-number… Hunters have a way of putting two and two together and getting five."

Stiles gazed at Derek. "You care about her," he said wonderingly. He didn't know Derek, not by any stretch of the imagination: he knew Derek scared him; that they shouldn't trust him because he was a stranger who hadn't yet earned their trust; but he also knew that Olive was probably the only person alive who could set her ringtone for Derek to 'You Sexy Thing' by _Hot Chocolate_ and get away with it. Her photo-ID for his calls was a picture of him shirtless, doing pull-ups in his abandoned, burned-out house. Again, Stiles didn't know how Olive got away with it; he guessed she must've taken the photo when he had been distracted, and that he didn't actually _know_ about that ringtone…

"I've known her since she was born," Derek said quietly, gazing at Olive, and something flickered across his face that Stiles couldn't name, his eyes scanning Olive's face and seeming to wince with regret and pain and sorrow, and the tiniest flash of humour. Stiles glanced from Olive to Derek, clearing his throat softly.

"Did you know her family?" he asked quietly. Derek paused, something passing across his face, and he blinked several times before glancing up at Stiles.

"You should get home," he said softly. "Rest. You and Scott had a lucky escape."

"Yeah, don't I know it," Stiles sighed, glancing at Olive. "Well, I'll…I'll be back in the morning. We could…take shifts watching her, if you're worried about the Argents." Derek nodded. Reaching out to gently touch Olive's hand, Stiles cleared his throat and made his way to the hall, pinching his eyes. As Stiles left, Derek could hear him ask Mrs McCall what he could do, what Olive would need, and he sat and watched Olive, gently holding her hand.

He'd known her since she was born; he could remember her being no bigger than a scrawny little baby-bird, green-eyed with already-pretty fingers and that lovely nose. He could remember her visiting every Thanksgiving, pink-cheeked as they played the Hale-version of Capture-the-Flag; and every summer, out on the lake, camping in the woods over the weekend, taking turns scaring the hell out of each other. He could remember her being part of those memories, memories that felt incredibly like a rusty knife to the heart whenever he thought about them… They were now the only two left, from those blissful, laughter-drenched summers and rich, frenzied Thanksgiving dinners. The only two left from two sprawling families, tragedy after tragedy turning them into the two loneliest of people.

His isolation wasn't something Derek would ever wish on anyone; part of it was his choice, but another part of it was hugely down to what had happened to his family. And he would never wish his life on another; let alone a sixteen-year-old girl who would wake up in a hospital, _alone_ and scared.

Derek had known Dianne, Olive's mother; she would have been incredibly proud of the woman Olive was becoming, because she was also incredibly like Dianne, as much as she reflected Moses' influence on her upbringing…as much as Olive showed inexplicable similarities to the father she had never known, Gabriel…Derek's friend, long before Olive had been born. Derek smiled to himself, watching Olive sleep. Gabriel would have thought his little girl absolutely _fantastic_. Her sense of humour, her love of _fun_; her dedication to her friends. And her selflessness. Her bravery; that came down to being forced to grow up early. But her kindness, her patience, they were also very much Gabriel's.

Gabriel would have loved his baby daughter. Derek reached out and gently brushed a naturally curly lock of hair from Olive's face. She was every part her father in looks. He'd heard people who'd known Gabriel talk about Olive, as if she was a female reincarnation of the father who'd never seen her born.

Because of what had happened in her life, Olive was very much her own person, she had to be, she couldn't rely on others; but she was also very much her father, undoubtedly raised by Dianne, but showed her stepfather's quiet, determined strength and mellow, compassionate personality. One of several Alphas Derek had met over the course of his life, Moses stuck out; he'd been incredibly wise, selfless and had had the same sense of humour as Olive. He'd also been the kind of Alpha that Laura had wanted to be. Laura would expect Derek to emulate Moses as much as their own, excellent father, but they had led different lives…they'd never found their sisters butchered, used to lure him back to Beacon Hills… They'd never been the reason their entire family had been locked in a basement and burned alive. Glancing at Olive again, Derek licked his lips and returned to gently holding her hand.

Olive had been there, unable to help as her family had been burned alive in a place they had been entitled to feel safe.

Derek had unknowingly helped Hunters track down and murder his entire family.

Olive's guilt was that she had been unable to get her family out of that blaze; Derek's was that he had caused it.

They were the last two of two sprawling, very _happy_ families, neither of which had _ever_ broken the unspoken laws Hunters executed werewolves for violating.

The woman who had decimated both their families was here in Beacon Hills once more.

If she showed up in the hospital where Olive was, Derek would rip her throat out.

Before Olive had the opportunity to.

* * *

**A.N.**: Who wouldn't love to smack Allison in the mouth after _Night School_?!


	11. Chapter 11

**A.N.**: The culmination of _Night School_. Thank you for the reviews, and please keep them coming as a reward for my considerable efforts!

* * *

**The Judgement of Actaeon**

_11_

* * *

In and out of consciousness, saturated with pain and an unfamiliar lethargy that tasted foul on her tongue, she was aware of several things, details drifting like scattered fall foliage through her tired brain. The soft beep…beep…beep of a machine, someone gently holding her hand; a warm, concerned voice belonging to a woman, one she vaguely recognised and could have named if her tongue didn't taste so funny and her head didn't feel like it was stuffed with a feather duvet; another voice ,young, male, excitable and concerned. The scent of a steak sandwich.

Snuffling, Olive woke up. The sun was streaming through the hospital-window, baking everything inside it rich gold. As she fidgeted lethargically, she frowned groggily as there was a rustle, and something _popped_ happily; she caught the scent of strawberry-lime Hubba-Bubba. She was always a loyal Bazooka girl; she and Mommy ganged up on Ruby about her 'unnatural' love of weird bubble-gums like 'liquid-centred' fruit-flavoured ones. Someone sighed, the sound bored; a glossy magazine was tossed on the wheeled table at the end of her bed, inside her line of sight, the focus of her eyes strange, fuzzy. She blinked them several times.

"Are you awake yet?" a voice asked. She blinked again, and a face popped so suddenly in front of hers that she jumped. Bright, burnished gold eyes, smooth coffee-coloured skin, an impish grin and Afro-curly hair; she was a very pretty kid now. As an adult, she'd be a stunner.

A slow smile curled Olive's lips. "Ruby," she sighed happily.

"Who were you expecting, Drew Fuller?" Ruby snorted, smirking; when Olive scoffed, Ruby laughed, so suddenly and so beautifully, Olive jumped. "Oh, right. You prefer your actors _mature_."

"As opposed to not being old enough to _shave_ yet," Olive retorted, smirking.

"All I said was that Justin Beiber has nice lips," Ruby remarked serenely, examining her long, filed fingernails.

"You know I'll never let you live it down," Olive smiled, chuckling, and Ruby rolled her eyes. Olive glanced at her sister's hands; for a kid, they were extraordinarily elegant. Olive had high expectations for Ruby to keep her in the lifestyle to which she planned to become accustomed when Ruby became an international supermodel—specialising in watches and jewellery. "You haven't painted your nails."

"I took the old polish off, actually," Ruby chirped happily, bounding off the bed to collect a stuffed tote bag from under the chair beside the bed. "You haven't painted my nails in ages!"

"I haven't seen you in ages," Olive beamed, thrilled, that after so long, her sister was here. Here in the hospital with her. She frowned at Ruby.

"Why am I in the hospital?" she asked, suddenly confused.

"You know!" Ruby laughed brilliantly. "Daddy's so angry that that Alpha attacked you." Olive sighed, remembering the school.

"But why am I here?" Olive asked. "Mommy says never to go to the hospital; we heal on our own."

"Mommy says there were 'circumstances outside your control' when you were brought in," Ruby said, crinkling her forehead sweetly. "But you've got to slow your healing." Olive sighed, her stomach straining, the skin tight, rough, painful.

"I know," she said sadly. Love him as she did, the Sheriff hadn't done her any favours sending her to the E.R. She frowned around the room. "Where are Mommy and Daddy?"

"They're coming with me next time," Ruby grinned lazily, producing a tub of nail-polish bottles, shaking it so the bottles rattled against each other. "You're going to paint my nails. And my friend Samantha let me borrow her portable-DVD player."

"Not _Duck Soup_ again?" Olive guessed, pretending to groan as Ruby produced the DVD-player.

"No! _Seven Brides for Seven Brothers_," Ruby grinned. "As you're_ maimed_, I thought I'd better let you have your choice of movie." She said it begrudgingly, with a heavy sigh, but her eyes twinkled with mirth. The DVD-player was set up, Adam Pontipee started singing, and as Ruby shook the tub of nail-polishes under Olive's nose to choose colours from, they both sang along, word-perfect.

"I think I'd like a different pattern on each nail," Ruby said thoughtfully. "That magazine said mixed-print manicures are in. And ombre." She gave Olive a sparkling grin.

"You know, as I'm in the hospital, you should really be painting my nails," Olive said, carefully getting the excess lacquer off the brush.

"It wouldn't last," Ruby said sadly to herself, watching Olive paint her pinkie-finger. Olive wondered at her sadness, but didn't press it; it soon lifted, anyway, singing along to _Seven Brides for Seven Brothers_, giggling over everything and anything, strangely, despite it being so long since they'd seen each other, Ruby knew all bout Scott, and Derek, and Laura, whom she wasn't really old enough to remember; curling her skinny, leggy little body beside Olive's, they had a major gossip-session about bratty Allison keeping Scott behind in the Chem. Lab, making Ruby's eyes roll with how pathetic and needy Allison seemed.

They agreed—Ruby promised not to tell their mother Olive was teaching her bad-language—that Jackson was a tool, and if he wasn't such a jackass, he'd be halfway handsome. And though Ruby grimaced at the clothes that were 'fashionable' now, but agreed with Olive that it was refreshing to see a Queen Bee pull off the clothes with a remarkably curvy figure; Olive would rather Ruby idolise Lydia, recognising that she didn't feel the need to be a size-zero and that Lydia would graduate valedictorian, rather than skinny, breast-less and as far as Olive had yet learned, personality-deprived Allison.

They talked about a lot of things, and nothing important, as only sisters could, painting Ruby's nails and giggling over Stiles.

Ruby was infatuated with him.

Olive didn't know how, but Ruby knew every joke, every movie they'd watched, her dinner-nights with Stiles and his dad, everything happening with Scott, Stiles' churlishness over his dad getting hurt; calling Olive 'Sexy' had Ruby in hysterics for long moments. She wiped her face, grinning, her fresh mixed-print manicure shining, before saying softly with a shy smile, "I think Isaac is cute."

Olive smiled, her cheeks warming. "I do, too."

"Is he your new friend?"

Olive sighed, shrugging slightly. "I don't know…I hope so—I'd like to be."

"I think you should be," Ruby smiled warmly. "He seems like he needs a friend. "Ruby gave her the kind of warm, adoring smile she used to give Olive, when she believed whole-heartedly that her big-sister was a superhero.

"…_I now pronounce you men and wives. You may kiss the bride_."

Ruby's head turned, that smile still warming her pretty face. "Movie's over," she said, sliding a glance at Olive, her features inexplicably sad. "I have to go now."

"What?" Olive half-laughed. "You can't go yet, they haven't brought me any Jell-O for you to steal." Ruby gave her a sad smile, but her eyes were seeking, intelligent; she sighed.

"You know I have to go, Oley," she said sombrely. Olive's heart seized; only Ruby ever called her Oley. And something…niggled, at the back of her mind. Gazing at Ruby, she was startled to find tears splashing on her own cheeks. Why was she suddenly so heartbroken. She stared at her little sister.

"Why am I so sad?" she whispered.

"You know, Oley," Ruby said softly. She slithered up to Olive, linking slender arms around Olive's shoulders. She was forgetting something, something important. She clutched at Ruby, suddenly never wanting to let her go.

"You can't go," she cried. A soft, heartsick sigh.

"Oley…you know I can't stay… We've done this before. You know why I can't stay," Ruby said tearfully. "I only came because you needed me."

"How old are you?" Olive sniffed, giving a smile without humour.

"You know that," Ruby said softly. "We've had this conversation before." Olive gazed at her sister. Though the years had passed, she looked exactly the same as the last time Olive had seen her. The clothes changed, the nails too, but every time Olive had seen Ruby since that night, her physical appearance remained that of an eleven-year-old girl. She spoke with intelligence and maturity because…because Olive did.

As Olive got older, their conversations became more mature, sophisticated. But Ruby ceased to grow, physically. She knew to talk about different things because Olive did… She was a figment of Olive's imagination, this Ruby.

Ever since that night…Ruby and tehir parents had taken six, eight months for Olive to let them go from her dreams. She had visited them every night, existing through the waking hours only for her dreams to start again. Months it had taken her to realise—with a lot of therapy—that she couldn't live in that false reality, existing only for those brief twenty-minute dreams with her long-dead family. It wasn't healthy for her. It had broken her, the last time her dream-family had forcibly abandoned her, forcing her to accept their gone-ness, to start working through things with her counsellor. Her grief; her anger; her sorrow; frequently having crippling panic-attacks; waking up from nightmares screaming; bursting into tears at the oddest things.

This wasn't real. Ruby…wasn't real. Wasn't _alive_.

But she was here. For the first time in months, she was spending time with her sister.

"Stay," she said gently, reaching for Ruby's hand, her painted nails shining.

"I can't," Ruby sighed softly, with complete adoration and compassion in her eyes, the desire to stay shining from her face, warring with knowing she couldn't.

"Please." Her voice cracked on the single word.

"I can't," Ruby whispered sorrowfully, gazing at Olive. She packed the tote-bag up, resignedly and sorrowfully ignoring Olive's pleas for her to stay, screaming Ruby's name…sobbing, the fresh scar of her grief ripped open as consciousness plummeted back into her with the overwhelming scent of sterile cleaner, the beep of machines and a woman's voice saying crossly, "Get her something to calm her down! Stop all that ridiculous screaming—You, get out of the way!"

"She doesn't need anything to calm her down," said a gentle voice, and Olive was vaguely aware of the mattress dipping, before she was engulfed in a warm, fragrant embrace—a masculine embrace. Clean-boy smell overrode the smell of the steriliser burning her nose as her screams were silenced, clinging instantly to the skinny frame of the boy cradling her head to his shoulder, forehead pressed to his neck as she sobbed, gripping his sweatshirt. Cradling her head, whoever he was shushed her gently, whispering comforting things she didn't really hear, oh so subtly rocking her as she sobbed and cried incoherently for her sister.

"Was it a bad dream?" the gentle voice whispered in her ear.

"It was a really g-good dream!" Olive cried, sobbing into the plain black sweatshirt. She loved those good dreams with Ruby and their parents—but they broke her heart as badly as the nightmares.

"Ruby was there," the voice said gently. Choking on her sob, her eyes burning like acid, Olive nodded silently. "What did you two do?" Olive choked again, squeezing the boy whispering so gently into her ear.

"Painted nails and watched—m-movies!" she cried.

"Did you talk?" the voice whispered.

"L-lots," Olive choked, sniffing, aware that she was beginning to calm down. Lethargy swept over her, sighing heavily, distraught, but no longer hysterical, no longer screaming for the sister…who was long dead. Tears still coursed freely down her face, burning, but with her head resting against the boy's shoulder, she started to relax her death-grip on him, soothed by the one arm tucked at her lower-back, keeping her close, reassuring, and the other hand, fingers gently tracing up and down her bare back as he whispered comforting things to her, things she needed to hear just then; "She's still here, Olive… They all are… You keep their memory alive… They did…and they did love you… They'll always be with you when you need them the most."

"They're gone," Olive whispered.

"Yes," the soft voice said sadly.

"Gone forever… They left me," she choked silently. The boy's arms tightened around her, holding her together.

"They died," he said, so heartbrokenly for a second Olive's grief lifted, and she wondered whether he was talking about her family…or someone he knew.

"Died and went where I can't follow," Olive cried silently.

"I don't like being left behind," the boy whispered hoarsely, and Olive shook her head slightly. She didn't like being left behind either. She gripped the boy back, hearing a tiny hiss of breath, a stifled moan of pain. She loosened her grip, lulled by the soft breaths of the boy cuddling her and his fingers rubbing so steadily up and down her back, spreading warmth and…comfort. As she remained in his arms, she started to gentle, lethargy creeping over her, but it was he whose voice and cuddles and scent soothed her, relaxed her tense body, coiled like a trap; she wanted to trap this person in her arms and keep him close to her. But as she drifted off to sleep against him, she remembered the concealed moan of pain, and the detail seemed important…for the life of her, she couldn't remember why.

* * *

Two panic-attacks she'd forgotten and waking up from a nightmare screaming for "Ruby" all in one night had the nurses' emotions roiling over their young ward; Mrs McCall had taken charge of Olive's wellbeing, knowing she had absolutely no family, no mother. She had seen her son hanging out with this pretty girl the month before school had started up for the kids. A little part of her had hoped, pre-Allison, that her son and Olive might have bonded. So it was therefore a little surprising that Scott hadn't come to visit his friend. They couldn't get rid of Stiles.

That didn't surprise Melissa.

She'd known Stiles as long as Scott had, the weird, motherless little boy with an immense heart. She'd sensed the bond between Stiles and Olive much more than with her own son, but she adored Olive; she had a touch of maturity, a levity and sincerity she hoped Scott would pick up from proximity with her. But Olive also had the best sense of humour of anyone she'd met in a while, and she absolutely had her enormous heart in the right place. Melissa was very glad Scott and Stiles both had a friend to turn to outside their close-knit partnership.

Another person they couldn't get rid of was Derek Hale. He put off quite a few of the other nurses and Olive's attending with his cold expression and unapproachable attitude; but Melissa had to interact with him, if only to tell him to get some rest and eat something as he spent the entire night and most of the next day by Olive's side. It was that second night, when Melissa had convinced Derek Hale—to whom she was infinitely grateful for alerting the sheriff's department to the danger posed to her son and his friends—to at least go home, take a shower and have something to eat, that Olive had woken from a nightmare, screaming for "Ruby" not to leave her, sobbing. It had been a heartbreaking sight; all of the nurses had watched in wonder, sighing wistfully over the gorgeous skinny boy who'd so shyly and politely asked to see Olive, dive in to hug Olive, sensing full well that human-contact worked far better in some instances than a syringe full of sedatives. He'd held Olive while she sobbed, choking for "Ruby", gentling and calming her, whispering to her, until she'd relaxed in his arms, falling asleep cuddled up to him. He'd had more than a few of the nurses weak at the knees, swooning.

After the first night, getting her through those two panic-attacks, forgotten before she'd passed out again, caused by dreams she wasn't conscious long enough to soothe her about, Olive had started getting visitors. Never family; Derek Hale had confirmed that Olive had none left, and that only endeared the pretty, injured girl to her carers more. Especially during her first panic-attacked, petrified of sleeping in the hospital because she'd seen _Kill Bill_, shocked and violated that some stranger had removed her clothing without her consent while she was passed out, never having been topless in front of a boy let alone naked, a sixteen-year-old girl alone at the hospital, unknowingly playing on her nurses' heartstrings.

Beacon Hills was a relatively small town; it was certainly no metropolis, but it wasn't exactly a tiny hamlet; it was small enough that anybody who knew Olive quickly knew she was in the hospital. Thanks to the protection of minors, nobody knew Scott and his friends were responsible for the damage to the high-school; but everybody seemed to know Olive had been attacked by the same animal that had killed the bus-driver and the video-store clerk.

Stiles didn't seem to leave; he hovered about anxiously, bringing out portable speakers and putting a playlist on his iPod that Olive had put together, willing the music to rouse her into consciousness.

After lunchtime had come around, Melissa went to check on Olive, concerned she'd been asleep so long, worried she hadn't had anything tangible to eat. She hadn't seen Olive since last night, an early shift for her for a change, the soft beep…beep of machinery greeted her, and she adjusted the blinds over the window, went to straighten out the blankets over Olive. They'd stopped trying to stop Olive curling up on her side, tucked up like a girl far younger than her age. Something about Melissa fussing over her must have woken Olive, because she snuffled softly, peeking around blearily, curiosity just registering on her sleepy features. Melissa paused, wondering whether she'd turn and fall back to sleep. When she didn't, Melissa smiled. "Hi, sweetheart."

"Mrs McCall?" Her head felt heavy, foggy, but her tongue felt worse, too big for her dry mouth, which still had that horrible taste on it. She knew what it was now; sedative. Pain-killers. They were fighting her body's natural healing-process. She blinked her eyes several times, Mrs McCall's pretty face coming into focus. She looked…relieved. A warm smile spread across her face.

"Hi, sweetie," she beamed, as Olive rolled carefully onto her back. The skin over her stomach felt tight and itchy. She could scent the dried blood on the air. "How are you feeling?"

Olive frowned thoughtfully. An emptiness weighed on her stomach. "Hungry." Mrs McCall chuckled, a warm smile lighting up her face.

"I'll have something brought up form the cafeteria for you," she promised, making to walk away; Olive reached out quickly, gripping her hand, suddenly tired again. Blinking as the acid-burn in her eyes surprised her, Olive blinked quickly, testing her tongue.

"Can…"

"Can I what, sweetie?" Mrs McCall prompted gently.

"The sedatives…and pain-killers…"

"Are you in pain?" Mrs McCall asked, quickly scanning her. "Do you need more?"

"Take them away," Olive whispered croakily, gazing imploringly at Mrs McCall. She had only a faint idea where she was had no recollection of what day it was or how long she'd been here, was fairly sure she'd had a panic-attack over her clothes being removed without her consent, had been knocked out by one of the nurses with a syringe… She was losing control of her entire existence. After so long taking care of herself, to lose that control was terrifying.

"Are you sure you don't want them?" Mrs McCall asked gently. "It might be easier to sleep through the pain." Olive gazed at Mrs McCall. Sleep through the pain. She'd tried that. For months and months, she'd used sleep to shelter herself from the pain of her grief and guilt, living in the false reality that her mind had created, where her family was still alive.

"It doesn't work," Olive whispered hoarsely, gazing at Mrs McCall. "Hurts worse…waking up…"

"Okay, sweetheart," Mrs McCall said gently, squeezing her hand. Olive cried silently while Mrs McCall tinkered with several tubes and drips; she cried not for attention, but because she couldn't help it, and perhaps Mrs McCall knew from her own son sometimes to back off and let a kid cry it out by themselves, because if she'd come and hugged Olive, she knew she would have broken down again.

Either way, Mrs McCall unhooked several tubes from Olive's arms, and privately Olive felt a wash of relief that was tangible as the drugs that made her entire being slothful stopped circulating through her system; another hospital-employee appeared with a tray of food for Olive. She carefully sat up, aware of her stomach twinging, both at the pain slashing across her skin and at the scent of food.

"Thank you," Olive said softly, but with feeling, as the young man placed the tray on the table at the foot of her bed and wheeled it up to her. "Please tell me it's a steak."

"Sorry," the man chuckled. "Chocolate-pudding though."

Olive gazed up imploringly. "No green Jell-O?"

"Sorry," the young man chuckled again. Olive, feeling better already since the sedating pain-killer drip had been removed, sighed, lips twitching.

"That's okay," she sighed lightly. "When I get a new IV I'll ask for watermelon-flavoured." Mrs McCall laughed, and the man left, smiling.

"Your colour's returning already," Mrs McCall observed with a smile, as Olive lifted the lid off her dinner-plate. "Do you mind if I check you over while you eat?"

"Um… No," Olive said, glancing up from the steaming plate of roast-beef, mashed potatoes, fresh peas and carrots, gravy and a biscuit. Sensing her hesitation, Mrs McCall smiled.

"I'm just gonna check your vitals, I won't remove your bandage." Olive nodded, and sat still and cooperated while Mrs McCall checked her over. "You're gonna be absolutely fine," Mrs McCall smiled happily, tucking a tiny flashlight into her scrubs breast-pocket after checking Olive's pupil-dilation. "That was quite a night you guys had, huh?" Olive gazed up at Mrs McCall, eyes widening… She hadn't even asked…

"Did the others get out okay?" she breathed. Mrs McCall smiled warmly.

"They got out just fine," she said soothingly. "Though Stiles has been clamouring for us to get you better so much some of the nurses almost put him in the room next to you."

"Has he been bugging you?" she asked gently, smiling. _Oh, Stiles…_

"He's been Stiles, let's put it that way," Mrs McCall smirked. "I'll give you a little while before I call and tell him you're awake. I promised I would." Olive chuckled.

"No, it's okay," she said softly, tucking into her roast-beef. "I can handle his exuberance." Mrs McCall chuckled, as Olive suddenly dropped her cutlery. "My insurance-card!"

"Don't worry about that," Mrs McCall said soothingly, before Olive could get worked up. "Stiles went to your house and found your insurance-card." Olive relaxed.

"He did?"

Mrs McCall nodded. "You know, some of the things those two got up to when they were kids…but I'm glad Stiles has a good head on his shoulders."

"He's a great friend," Olive said, and she meant it.

"Well, I'm glad you and Stiles and Scott have each other," Mrs McCall smiled. "High-school's hard enough, without having good riends to lean on." It went without saying that Olive was especially lucky with the boys because she had absolutely nobody else to help her through the most trying time in her adolescence. Mrs McCall couldn't know that, because she had no family, high-school was the easy part. She sighed softly, frowning as she caught a scent on the air.

"Flowers?" She glanced up. She hadn't taken the room in before, but now, quickly tucking her dinner away, she was surprised. The dresser opposite her bed was overloaded with five large bouquets of the most beautiful flowers she'd seen in a while. Above the dresser, where a generic art-print should be, someone had mounted a poster-board covered in pretty scrapbook paper, decorated with photographs. For a quiet life in her cabin, Olive hadn't realised how many opportunities she'd had to be photographed. Someone had put a lot of thought and care into putting together the collage, complete with stickers, stamps and other pretty embellishments. A stack of colourful envelopes rested on the bedside-cabinet, by a vase that contained a simple posy of vibrant sunflowers.

"You've had quite a few visitors," Mrs McCall smiled, gesturing to the other bedside-cabinet on which a stunning orchid and a huge 'Get Well Soon' card rested.

"Have I?"

"Mm-hmm. Stiles and his dad both stopped by; the bouquet with the freesias is from them," Mrs McCall smiled. "A girl named Erica came with her mom earlier this morning with the agapanthus and thistles. I'm not sure who the other three are from, they were deliveries, but the orchid is from Jackson Whittemore's mom; she came in with him yesterday." Olive glanced from the orchid to Mrs McCall, eyebrows raised. _Jackson_ had come to see her?! Mrs McCall smiled warmly, tucking a lock of Olive's hair behind her ear. "You're quite a hero to those kids' parents, you know. After what you did. It was a very brave thing you did."

"I'm just glad that it worked," Olive said hoarsely, clearing her throat. "And that everyone else is okay."

"We're all just relieved you're going to be okay," Mrs McCall smiled. Gazing at the unaccounted-for bouquets, Olive's mind went to…Isaac.

Shyly, she asked, "Did, um…who else visited?"

"Well, your boss came in, in a huge fright," Mrs McCall said; Olive groaned; she had missed work for… What day was it? "He was very upset you'd been brought into the E.R. He was singing your praises to the nurses."

"He was?"

"Mm-hmm," Mrs McCall smiled. "How you're the most responsible and trustworthy kid he's ever met." Olive glowed; compliments like that, acknowledgement of her hard work, always made her exceptionally proud. "and that he's gonna pay you for the shifts you've missed."

"That's really nice of him," Olive said softly, not as amazed at her boss's generosity as she might've been; she knew how kind he was. He'd given her a job, after all, with hours completely suited to her schedule.

"I asked him if he was hiring," Mrs McCall winked. "After your boss, Mr Harris stopped by. He was worried you'd burned yourself with the Molotov cocktail." Olive was surprised her dour Chemistry teacher had come to check on her wellbeing. "And then one of Scott's lacrosse-buddies Danny came by to give you a card; he came with his friend on your gymnastics team. That big card by the orchid is from the team." All this was a little harder to take in; more difficult to handle than her physical pain. Danny, the team, her boss, Mr Harris, Jackson, the sheriff… She reached up to brush a tear from her cheek. "Sweetie, what's wrong?"

"I…I guess I'm not as alone as I thought I was," she choked, smiling tremulously. She had lived in Beacon Hills two months…she hadn't expected this…care. Mrs McCall smoothed Olive's blanket then perched on the edge of the bed. Her expression was solemn, caring. A mother's expression.

"There's nothing like a hospital-visit to make people realise how much you meant to them," she said softly. "How much you've touched their lives." She waved a hand around the room, at the flowers, the collage. "This is the only way people know how to express their appreciation for the little ways you've changed their lives." Olive blushed.

"I haven't changed anybody's life," she mumbled.

"No? You didn't smash some guy's cellphone for trying to film Erica having one of her seizures?" Mrs McCall asked, raising her eyebrows as if she already knew the answer.

"That was…common decency," she mumbled.

"Something that's in short supply in the zoo they call 'high-school'," Mrs McCall said, sighing. She gazed at Olive steadily. "Erica's mom was especially touched you'd stood up for her little girl. And Stiles…he and his dad raved about you; they had the entire nurses' lounge in stitches over your prank in Stiles in the morgue. And even I've noticed your influence on those boys. After the grief you gave him over making me do everything around the house, Scott does all the laundry now; he makes dinner some nights a week; he keeps his room tidy; runs a vacuum around the house."

Olive smiled shyly. She had given Scott an earful, appalled he'd done so little around the house to help his mother. "I'm glad."

"So am I," Mrs McCall chuckled. "You're a good influence on those boys."

"They're nice boys," Olive said softly, and she meant it. She cleared her throat softly. It was nice to talk to Mrs McCall, the only bonding she'd done with an older lady in a long time. "Um… Did anyone else visit? The collage…who's that from?"

"That is from Lydia," Mrs McCall smiled. "She felt bad, letting you go off by yourself. She said she'd come back with all sorts of goodies when you're 'awake and more interesting'." Olive laughed; that sounded like something Lydia would say. "Apparently she wrangled some help from the Yearbook staff, _Facebook_ and a boy called Matt for the photos."

Olive remembered Matt taking photographs during P.E. in the swimming-pool, and with a plunge, she realised she might have to sit out on swimming to keep up the ruse of her healing.

"And the pretty sunflowers are from a boy called…Isaac," Mrs McCall said thoughtfully. She smiled. "Who is he?"

"He's…a boy in my class," Olive said shyly, wondering when Isaac had stopped…by… Like an ice-bath, the memory flooded her, making her write with complete mortification… She hid her face in her hands, moaning in horror, "It was _Isaac_ I sobbed all over." She was so embarrassed.

_Not like you've never broken down in total strangers before_, a tiny voice reminded her. After three months of complete and utter shcok, she had taken to breaking down in front of strangers for seemingly no reason, waking from nightmares screaming, having panic-attacks that forced her to throw up on bushes and in wastepaper-baskets. Last night—was it last-night?—had been the first time she had woken from one of those so-real-she-could-taste-the-scent-of-nail-polish dreams; the first time in a while she'd sobbed so completely. And Isaac had witnessed it.

But he had also…calmed her. He had soothed her…she had drifted off to sleep in complete…peace. She had felt utter comfort wrapped in his arms.

Still…how mortifying.

"If it lessens your embarrassment, I don't think he'd have stepped in if he wasn't willing to get cried on," Mrs McCall smiled warmly, and Olive remembered the tiny words of comfort he'd given her, things he'd somehow instinctually known she needed to hear; she remembered his questions, asking her the details of her dream with Ruby, not condemning it, and she wondered how he'd know… "He seemed to know exactly how to calm you down… And when you fell asleep, he did _not_ wanna let you go." Olive blushed, lowering her hands, a tiny smile on her lips. "He was _very_ sweet."

"He is, isn't he," Olive whispered, smiling.

"And _so _polite," Mrs McCall beamed approvingly. "Everything was 'please' and 'thank you' and 'I don't want to inconvenience you'… He had the other nurses fawning all over him."

"Did you see his eyes?" Olive whispered reverently.

"He had _very_ pretty eyes," Mrs McCall smiled. "And such a sweet smile." Olive beamed.

"He does, doesn't he?" she smiled warmly.

"A cute butt, too," Mrs McCall said, winking, and Olive laughed, beaming. Something that Olive had been thinking about the last few days threatened to bubble over her tongue as Mrs McCall, still smiling to herself and chuckling softly, made her way to the door.

"Mrs…McCall," she said, biting her lip, and the older lady hung back. "Can I ask you…for some…advice?"

"What do you need, sweetie?" she asked, perching again on Olive's bed. Olive took a deep breath.

"I think…Isaac is being hit," she said uncertainly, glancing at Mrs McCall as her expression changed. Carefully, she told Mrs McCall about the black eyes, the pslit lips, the bruises on his arms, his ribs the doctor had looked at after the lacrosse-game last Friday, Isaac claiming he got all his injuries from lacrosse; his apprehension to go home. "I just…wondered what you think I should do."

Mrs McCall sighed heavily, her eyes troubled and concerned. "Well, if he's protecting someone who's hurting him, there's not a lot you can do… The best thing I know you can do is…just don't try to fix it, just…let him know what you think is going on. Let him know you're there, let him come to you. Make sure he knows there's someone who notices."

Olive nodded thoughtfully. That's all she could think of doing, too.

After that, Olive let Mrs McCall go; though she had never been to hospital before, she had seen enough Scrubs episodes to know nurses were run off their feet. Then she was left alone. She sighed, glancing around the room. She tried to hone her Force to bring the notes from the unclaimed bouquets to her, suspecting the nurses might frown on her getting out of bed. So she opened the cards people had left on her bedside-cabinet; people from class she chatted to, other boys on the lacrosse-team had brought cards, people she'd never thought she'd had much contact with. Even if it was just a line or two, people had thought about her, had made the effort to buy and write the cards, and drop them off. When she had to use the bathroom, she checked her wirings, thankful Mrs McCall had unhooked her, and padded her way to the en-suite bathroom. Padding back out again, she stopped by the dresser, examining the two bouquets that were unaccounted for. Cornflowers, wild white roses and coral-coloured peonies made up one; a beautiful fragrant array of lilac stocks, tuberoses, gladioli and long-stemmed vintage lilac-pink roses made up the second. Smiling, suspecting who the latter was from, she plucked out the little note: _Don't die; hit on the cute doctor! You're a total bad-ass and we love you! Ellen Ripley would be proud! XxX Tara, June, Campi, Ace and Milo_. Olive smiled to herself, plucking the second note-card from the cornflower posy. _Can't believe you landed yourself in hospital, you freak! Get the hell out and come party with us! All waiting to give you your birthday-spanks, love Jake and the Pack!_ Olive chuckled, pressing the note over her heart, closing her eyes, envisioning Jake and his pack of Betas. Derek and Scott? _Paled_ in comparison to Jake's gorgeous boys. She eyed the posy, the cornflowers, and snorted; she'd always compared Jake's eyes to the colour of cornflowers. _Tart_, she thought, smirking, and the poster-board caught her eye, hanging over the bouquets.

Olive had to admit, Lydia had done a gorgeous job; she could frame this whole thing. She didn't know how she'd put it together so fast, but the photographs were all stunningly cropped, beautifully mounted, and not one of them was in any way unflattering. She knew Stiles had taken her photo before; Mrs McCall had gotten in a few over the summer month Olive had spent with Scott and Stiles; she knew Matt had taken her photograph during P.E.—there was an absolutely gorgeous one of her and Isaac perched on the diving-block, gazing at each other, grinning—but she hadn't realised people had taken her picture at parties, the lacrosse-game, in the dining-hall, between classes. Lydia had evidently gone through some of her most-recent Facebook albums, because there were also photographs of her with Jake and his pack, of her girlfriends; photographs taken at gymnastics parties; bonfires; picnics; camping-tips. Her stomach ached, gazing at those pictures, and not because of her lacerations.

* * *

**A.N.**: A sad chapter; I was inspired heavily by the novel _Collision Course_, which I think every teen-driver should read, it's heartbreaking and raw and amazing.


	12. Chapter 12

**A.N.**: I know—shocking, isn't it? An _update_!

Having finished university _forever_ (unless I take a hit to the back of the head and decide to become a 'mature' student in about twenty years' time) I have been in the process of finding a "J.O.B." so things have been pretty stressful here! Anyway, I just watched the first three episodes of _Teen Wolf_ season three, eagerly anticipating episode four airing tonight, and aside from it getting my _TW_-mojo going again, I have some concerns.

I dislike the twin Alphas. It's like they've tried to do Jackson version "Twin2.0" but the boys just…aren't cute. At least in my personal opinion. And there are just too many mysterious girls showing up. Biker-chick, Heather, Erica, and then there's _Cora_.

Disliking how they brushed off Jackson; after an entire season dedicated to his jackassness, and another to him turning into a murderous puppet-lizard, I think the audience is entitled to a little bit more of his redemptive post-Kanima journey!

However, I think Cora might be a cool addition to the show. And I'm wondering about Biker-chick's importance, and what happened to Erica in the three months she and Boyd were captive; I think perhaps Erica might've had one of her seizures—aren't epileptic seizures sometimes brought on by excessive stress? Also, where has Cora _been_ the last nine years; and why in the hell was Ms Morrell helping the Alpha-pack? And why doesn't the female Alpha own nail-clippers?

And, you all know me pretty well by now, watching the new season got my creative juices flowing, and I now **really** **want to** **write a new story** giving Jackson a twin-sister, starting the story in season two, her thinking Jackson's abusing steroids because of his aggressive/violent/spacey behaviour: she was friends with Erica since kindergarten, Isaac won't let her say anything about his dad abusing him, and Jackson really starts scaring her because she doesn't know about the supernatural world, until Scott and Stiles kidnap Jackson. Then it's pretty much a crash-course, and Allison starts teaching her what the Hunters have been training her to do, so she can defend herself/protect Jackson! What do you think?

I need to update _Jekyll and Hyde_ next. I'm working on chapter two. I've figured out some things that will change canon, like for Allison after her mother's suicide, and the Argent family's involvement in the supernatural in season three… I can't decide whether to have Isaac and Mary move into Derek's new loft (love the sapphire velvet couch, the huge window and the spiral staircase) or have Mary move into Isaac's house with him, either way I think they'll form the core 'family', with Mary becoming the heart of it, countering Derek when he forgets to listen to what his heart's saying.

* * *

**The Judgement of Actaeon**

_12_

* * *

Someone cleared their throat, and Olive glanced around, her heart immediately squeezing with something close to joy. "Isaac!" She became aware that she was wearing a paper gown and hadn't showered in how many days! She could feel her hair needed a wash and she really should have brushed her teeth while she was in the bathroom. The smile slid from her face. He had a fresh shiner on his cheek. She glanced from the bruise to his eyes, which were mercurial, one emotion flitting after the next.

"Mrs McCall said you were awake," Isaac said shyly, gesturing into the hall, to the nurses' station. "I'm glad." Olive smiled, blushing softly. Isaac cleared his throat gently. "Are you…is everything okay?" He glanced down at her stomach, worrying his lower-lip.

"Oh… Yeah, everything's okay, I'm fine," Olive assured him. "I'm, um…actually wondering when I can leave."

"As soon as possible, I'd say," Isaac said. "I swear the cafeteria-staff get paid bonuses for making people ill."

"Comforting to know, after I inhaled my roast-beef lunch," Olive chuckled softly. Glancing at Isaac's expression, she crept toward him. "So…you've spent a lot of time here, then?"

Isaac licked his lips, glancing at her warily. "When my mother died." Olive gazed at him; he had lost his elder-brother in Iraq to some stupid war, and…and he had lost his mother, too. Here, in this very hospital. There had been no hospitals for Olive's family, but Arthur had helped her sell her family's home; she couldn't go to Tara's house next-door without everything reminding her of them. That pain, on top of struggling through her nightmares and elating over her dreams of her family, had done all but break her. She couldn't imagine the kind of memories this place held for Isaac. Disregarding her gown, the fact that she hadn't showered or brushed her teeth, Olive strode to Isaac, and hugged him. He tensed slightly, then relaxed, shyness emanating from him as he placed his hands on her waist.

"It means a lot that you came here to see me," she said softly, squeezing him subtly before releasing him.

"It's…I mean, it was…" Isaac bit his lip, glancing around, his cheeks warm with colour, and his eyes saddened as he clocked the five gorgeous bouquets on the dresser. "I guess I'm not your only visitor." His cheeks warmed as his eyes flickered to the sunflowers on her bedside-cabinet.

"Yeah. I haven't seen anyone else, though; I only just woke up a little while ago," Olive said. "Mrs McCall said that the, um, the sunflowers are from you?"

"I, um… Yeah," Isaac blushed. Olive beamed.

"Sunflowers are my absolute favourites," she said softly, and Isaac blinked, then beamed. "Thank you."

"You're quite welcome," Isaac smiled shyly. He glanced at her uncertainly. "I, er…guess you're probably tired. They've probably told you to rest. I'll…go. I just…wanted to check on you." he turned to leave, shy. Olive jumped at the opportunity.

"Actually—Isaac?" Isaac paused, glancing back at her. She sat down on the bed and patted the mattress for him to sit. He did, nervously. He did she start this conversation? _No embellishments_, a little voice said inside her head. She thought of how her mother and Mo would've handled this—Mo especially. To-the-point…but gentle. Always gentle, always patient. Always compassionate. Taking a deep breath, she let it out on a heavy sigh. Glancing into his eyes, she said simply, "I know you're being abused, Isaac."

He gazed at her, eyes widening slightly with fear or anxiety, probably a combination of both. "I… Lacrosse is…" Perhaps it was Olive's expression; _something_ broke through Isaac's defences, and his eyes glazed with tears. Pain and _relief_ washed over his face, so tangible Olive could taste it. She was probably the first—maybe the _only_ person—to ever tell Isaac she had noticed he was being brutalised. She couldn't imagine what kind of relief he must be feeling, knowing he wasn't…_alone_.

"If you don't want to talk about it," she said softly, "I'm not going to force you to. And I don't…I don't know what's going on at home, so I won't…say anything to anyone…unless you want me to." Isaac licked his lips, glancing into her eyes. "But I wanted you to know that…if you ever want to talk…if you ever need someone to talk to the police…or if you need a place to crash… I guess what I'm trying to say is… "She sighed, biting her lip, trying to find the right words; gazing into Isaac's eyes, she found them: "You're not alone anymore."

Isaac's admission about his mother's death, however long ago, his brother's recent death out in the desert, cleared up a lot of things. She didn't think—she didn't know—that Isaac had any other siblings; if so…he was left alone with his bullying father. If Isaac's injuries were anything to go by, especially that bruise on his ribs, having abuse shouted from the sidelines at a lacrosse-game was the least of what Isaac suffered through.

Olive examined Isaac's face; he didn't respond. He didn't seem able to; what did you say to what Olive had said? But Olive had said what she needed to; the rest was up to Isaac. If he wanted to approach her, confide in her, that was his choice; she wouldn't push him. But he knew she was there; that was the important thing.

"Do you… Do you have a cell-phone?" she asked, clearing her throat; this seemed to break Isaac out of his thoughts, and he pulled a battered black-and-red _Motorola_ cell-phone from his pocket. Olive took it, plugging her number into his extremely short contact-list, and she sent a text to her own phone to save Isaac's number. Handing Isaac his phone back, she caught his eye. "I don't care what time it is… You need me, you call me."

A hundred emotions flickered across Isaac's face, as he pocketed his phone, but he managed a shy nod. "Promise me," she said, almost stern.

Isaac cleared his throat, pinching and wiping his eyes, saying hoarsely, "I promise." He gazed at her, eyes glittering, for a moment, before whispering, "Thanks, Olive." Then they were hugging, the roles had reversed since he had calmed her after her dream of Ruby; now she cradled Isaac to her, rubbing his back gently in case he had unseen bruises.

"Friends take care of each other," she said softly, sighing. "Especially when you've no-one else." She of all people knew you could feel totally isolated even standing in a crowded room with everyone staring at you. Isaac was at the other end of the spectrum; in that same crowded room, he'd be the one person nobody noticed, but should.

"I don't think you're as alone as you thought," Isaac murmured, gently breaking away from her, wiping his eyes on the cuff of his plain black sweatshirt. She jumped as Stiles came bounding into the room.

"I don't think so, either," she said softly, smiling.

"Hey, Olive! You're awake!" Stiles beamed enthusiastically. He was carrying…Olive's vintage-style 'Paris' wheeled suitcase-trunk. "Hey, Isaac."

"Hi," Isaac said softly, glancing at Olive, discreetly wiping his eyes again.

"What're you doing here?" Olive smiled, as Stiles dropped to give her a hug.

"Didn't Isaac tell you? School's cancelled 'til Monday," Stiles exclaimed gleefully. "Where the hell else would I be? It's thanks to you we've got a four-day weekend."

"Me?"

"Yeah, it kind of go out that you threw the firebomb at the—" Stiles broke off suddenly, glancing at Isaac, "—animal that terrorised us and demolished half the school!"

"Was the damage really bad?" Olive winced.

"Let's just say Fred and George Weasley would be proud of you," Stiles grinned.

"What day is it, anyway?" Olive asked.

"Friday," Stiles grinned. "When can we spring you? Lydia's throwing a party at hers to celebrate our alive-ness. Need the guest of honour there."

"Guest of honour," Olive said softly, grimacing.

"Yeah! It's gonna be a whole big deal—the Pope has plans, but Barbra Streisand's gonna make her farewell concert—again—Elvis and Howard Keel are both coming, and Sigourney Weaver is bringing chips. We're still trying to convince Stephen King to do a private reading…"

"How much Adderall have you had today?" Olive asked, chuckling.

"Not a lot, why?" Olive just laughed, catching Isaac's eye. "So, anyway, what'd the doctor say? Can you vacate the premises to get your party on?" Olive could sense Stiles' excitement; it was palpable. She sighed heavily, biting her lip.

"I don't know, Stiles…" Stiles gripped her shoulders.

"Without the guest of honour there is no party, which means Stiles' five-year plan for getting Lydia Martin goes out the window, why can't you understand that?"

"Stiles, you do understand I'm in a hospital-bed, right? I don't think Scott's mother would approve of me going to a high-school rager the night I check myself out of the hospital."

"Bad-ass who throws firebombs at monsters and demolishes the high-school doesn't want to upset her _nursey_ by going to an underage party?" Stiles goggled. "I mean, come on, at the very least you can show up and guilt-trip Romeo and Juliet for not even bothering to visit you."

"I'd imagine that might have something to do with their mutual grounding," Olive said; she wasn't surprised Allison hadn't come to see her, the way Olive had treated her, but their situation in the school hadn't been the appropriate time for mollycoddling and sparing someone's feelings. She was a little surprised by Scott. She eyed Stiles, realisation sneaking up on her. "Oh, come on, you two aren't in a snit again?"

"I think the thing at school let me overlook my issues with Scott, but the aftermath only served to reinforce the gap between us," Stiles said, hands on his waist. Olive groaned.

"What happened?"

"Well, while you were, y'know, bleeding to death, everyone's crying, thinking you're dead, all Allison can do is cry and pout angrily like she's the victim, and dumps Scott because she 'can't trust him'," Stiles said mockingly. Olive rolled her eyes.

"It sounds like you're just angry with Allison," she said succinctly.

"Well, _duh_! Her damn fault you're in here," Stiles blurted.

"It isn't, Stiles—"

"She played the Weepy McWeepster card and Scott, being _whipped_, did exactly what she asked! You got hurt as a result."

"If she'd let Scott go, you'd just be angry with her for not stopping him getting hurt," Olive sad sagely. "Stiles, you can't stay mad at your best-friend over things outside his control."

"I can _so_ if they're turning him into a selfish prick," Stiles protested childishly.

"You mean his relationship with Allison is turning him into a selfish prick. It's first-relationship excitement, Stiles, it'll settle down. He'll get over it," Olive said comfortingly. "Trust me."

"I thought Stiles said Allison dumped Scott," Isaac said quietly.

"Yeah. And I'm allowed to be pissed at them both still because after you were carried out of the school _disembowelled_, all _she_ could think about was herself, and all he could think about was—"

"Her," Olive nodded. "Stiles, it's first-love bullshit. He'll see what an idiot he's been. Trust me."

"You seem very…_wise_ about this," Stiles said, watching her thoughtfully. "Anna Stern wise. Have you had a first relationship?"

"Oh, yeah," Olive nodded solemnly. "Mufasa."

"Mu… The animated lion from _The Lion King_?" Stiles deadpanned.

"Yep. I was five. It was a tie between him and Colin Firth in _Pride and Prejudice_. Mufasa won on account of his voice," Olive sighed. Isaac chuckled. "He was such a wonderful boyfriend. Never asked me for anything."

"Okay, have you ever had a real relationship? You know, with a real person?"

"What're you trying to say?"

"Um, well, that Disney _animated_ films aren't real."

"Well, why don't you just trot on over to Paediatrics and tell all the kids that Santa doesn't even pay his elves minimum-wage!" Olive gasped; Isaac chuckled.

"Come on, Olive…"

"Stiles, you've really got to take Scott's attitude on the chin," Olive said gently, gazing earnestly at him. "When he sees what a fool he's been, he'll be mortified. You know you two have gone through too much—know too much—to just cut all ties. Now, come on…what's in my case. And how did you get it, it's—you went in my bedroom?"

"In my defence, it was an emergency," Stiles said. "Oh, and here's your phone; I had to take it so I could disable your alarm while I was there and reset it when I was done. "Olive glanced up at Stiles as he lifted her decorative case onto her lap; she had given Stiles the code to her alarm-system, and he knew her locker-combo, and the combination to her safe in the attic. Arthur was pleased Olive had someone in Beacon Hills like Stiles, whom she trusted implicitly. She opened her case, glanced into it, then shut it, glancing at Stiles.

"You went in my underwear drawer."

"I swear, I didn't do it to be pervy or anything!" Stiles gasped. "Mrs McCall said you'd need something comfy to go home in. And don't worry, I had my eyes closed the whole time—it was all by touch." Olive blushed, wondering what else Stiles had found in her underwear drawer…

"Well…thanks for going to get me some clothes," Olive said.

"You have a tonne of clothes I've never even seen you wear," Stiles said thoughtfully. "When I was in your closet looking for a bag, there were loads of clothes you've never worn."

"Oh, I've worn them," Olive reassured him, sighing. "Just not…here."

"Well, Lydia was impressed," Stiles said happily. "If she was your size, she said she'd be stealing your vintage stuff."

"When was Lydia in my room?" Olive frowned.

"Earlier. She wanted to decorate your place for your homecoming," Stiles said, grinning.

"Oh dear," Olive sighed.

"You wear the scarlet-letter of nerddom no more, Olive," Stiles assured her cheerfully. "Saving their lives has really done a one-eighty on Jackson and Lydia. You're _in_." In. The popular crowd. Olive had been there. Done that. Suffered through the hangover. But Lydia was incredibly smart, and Jackson…could have been an okay guy if he wasn't such a dick.

"So…this party tonight," Olive sighed. "Will there be cake?"

Stiles shrugged nonchalantly. "I can make a call." Olive chuckled. "So does that mean you're in?"

"If I can get out of here before tonight, and if you promise I don't have to hold your hair out of your face while you throw up," Olive sighed. "Maybe." Stiles whooped, arms in the air.

"Better tell Lydia it's on for tonight," Stiles grinned, tugging out his cell-phone. It couldn't be plainer that Stiles was barely containing his ecstasy over having Lydia Martin's number on his phone!

"Um, I can…I can go ask for the doctor," Isaac said quietly.

"Thanks, Isaac," Olive smiled gently, watching the back of his denims as he strode out of the room.

"—Yeah! She was okay enough to ask whether there'd be cake… What kind of cake d'you want, Olive?"

"Hm?"

"Earth to Olive! Stop staring at Lahey's Levi's! I'm talking cake here! What kind?"

"Are you serious?"

"As a visit to the E.R."

Olive chuckled. "Red Velvet, butter-cream frosting, fresh strawberries if they have any good ones."

"Did you get that? Yeah. I'll be there. Bye." Olive smiled as Stiles squirmed with delight.

"When did Lydia give you her number?" she asked.

"Yesterday," Stiles said casually.

"Well, I'm glad something good came out of all this," Olive sighed. A doctor arrived; it was all very straightforward from there. Since Stiles had brought her clothes, and Mrs McCall had given her the all-clear earlier, the doctor checked her over, prescribed her antibiotics and a mild pain-killer, then discharged her.

* * *

**A.N.**: What do you think? I know it's been _months_ since I last updated—Boxing Day (26 Dec) 2012, but I've had stuff to do since then, like write university Dissertations so I can graduate, so…


End file.
